


Allhallows' Affair

by MindYourOwnBismuth



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol AKA "Social Lubricant", Blow Jobs, Costume Party, Dancing, First Kiss, First Meeting, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Frottage, Halloween, Hand Jobs, How Do I Tag, In a closet, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, Other Lubricants, Tipsy Snogging, if you get what I mean, lots of flirting, some cute shit, too much flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-27 05:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12574796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindYourOwnBismuth/pseuds/MindYourOwnBismuth
Summary: Two vampires walk up to a bar... they meet a mutilated rugby player and a scantily-clad nurse. Little Red Riding Hood and a werewolf are also somehow involved.--An All Hallows' Eve Party Ficlet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes: This little thing is the love-child of a massive case of writer’s block stemming from[my other fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10841280/chapters/24066762), and my love of all things spooky.**

**I am obligated to tell you that these characters are not mine (I would be doing them a grand disservice if they were). Just borrowing them for a bit. I'll return them in once piece.**

**This story is neither beta’d nor brit-picked. Any and all mistakes are my own.**

**I am incredibly thankful for you clicking your way here. Please, read, enjoy, and have a grand Hallowe'en.**

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 _“Fuck,_ that’s cold.”

“Quit twitching. You’re just going to make a mess-”

“It’s _slimy!”_ John whinged, inadvertently squirming where he sat in his chair, eyes screwed tightly shut and nose wrinkled with distaste, face turned up towards the ceiling.

Mary frowned, brow furrowed with a mixture of annoyance and concentration as she pulled back to sit upright in her own chair in front of him. “You’re the one who wanted to do this,” she accused, waving her spoon, still covered in white, viscous liquid, in John’s direction. “Are you going to let me continue, or are you going to keep up your whinging?” A teasing smirk played at her lips.

John, for his part, pouted and slumped in his seat, afraid to let his chin drop from its elevated position, lest he disturb what little substance had been smeared on his neck. “Alright, fine,” he reluctantly acquiesced, and focused his eyes on a paint chip on the wall of Mary’s dorm room above her vanity as she grinned triumphantly, leaned forward, and slathered another spoonful of liquid latex across John’s trachea.

It hadn’t expressly been _John’s_ bright idea to go all out for Halloween this year, but Mary’s interests in medical illustration combined with her newly-inspired passion for _“The Theatre”_ with help from an acting class elective meant that he, as her best friend, was going to be her subject for experimentation. He’d agreed without knowing exactly what he was getting himself into. Maybe some faux stitches, he thought. A plaster here and there.

He hadn’t been expecting layers of white glue and torn facial tissues to be pressed to his neck, with an intimidating spread of powders and gels and brushes and unmarked bottles spanning the surface of Mary’s vanity beside them.

The revving sound of a blow-drier was shortly followed by a warm stream of air gusting across John’s neck. Mary’s curious finger prodded at the layer of latex and tissue plastered in a thick band across the front of John’s throat, and, once satisfied with its state of dryness, turned off the blow-drier and smeared another layer of goo and plastered another layer of torn tissue strips to John’s skin.

Nearly twenty minutes and several layers of liquid latex and facial tissues later (John lost count after application number three), Mary leaned back, a light huff accompanying her self-satisfied smile. “Phase one, done.”

“Can I move my head? My neck’s gone all stiff,” John complained, to which Mary rolled her eyes and sighed.

“Go ahead,” she instructed, turning to gather a series of small bottles and tubes and brushes from her vanity, holding a few vials of beige liquid up for inspection. “Just be careful not to tear it.”

John hummed in acknowledgement as he looked in the mirror, tentative fingers reaching up to brush over the dried layers plastered to his neck with a mild grimace on his face. “What are you going as again?”

“Sexy Nurse, obviously,” Mary said, and the pair shared a laugh.

“You’re more original than that,” John said, only mildly chastising.

“Mm,” the other hummed as she placed a dollop of beige cream onto a brush with surgical precision, “maybe so, but there’s no hassle to the costume. Short skirt, cropped, low-cut top; and God forbid someone other than you is actually just looking for a nice time tonight.” Her smirk was audible in her voice as she leaned forward to press her brush to John’s neck, and the man flinched lightly where he sat at the chill of the liquid against his skin. “Christ,” Mary chastised, “you’re such a baby. How do you manage rugby in the cold and the rain?”

John didn’t offer an answer. “What are you putting on me now?” he asked instead.

“Foundation.” Mary leaned back and deposited more beige liquid on her brush before returning to paint John’s neck. “I’ve got to find a decent shade for you, though… Not everyone can be as perfectly bronzed as you are,” she murmured, and a sidelong glance at the vanity mirror told John that, indeed, Mary’s foundation was a few shades too light for his own skin. “We’ll get it, in time,” she reassured, and John sat back and closed his eyes as he waited.

 

\---

 

“Hold _still-_ ”

“You’re going to cut my bloody carotid!”

“Quit squirming!” Mary reprimanded with a gentle but firm smack to John’s thigh, and in response, John kept as still as possible, fingers grasping the sides of his seat, wide eyes fixed on the mirror of Mary’s vanity as the young woman worked the point of one scissor blade into a small hole in the layered latex and tissue. After much trial and error, she’d managed to find a mix of foundations and bronzers that matched John’s skin tone nearly perfectly - _“It doesn’t matter if it’s perfect, we’re going to cover it in blood anyway”_ \- and was now making a cut in the layers. The slit-throat effect was finally beginning to take shape.

The moment her scissors left the vicinity of John’s neck, the young man slumped and let out an exaggeratedly laboured breath, to which Mary merely shook her head and reached out to open the gap in the fabric and glue a little wider. “Alright,” she said excitedly as she reached for an opened palate made of darkened hues of purples, reds, and blues, “now the magic happens.”

 

\--

 

John stood and looked in the mirror nearly half an hour later, tentative fingers brushing the edge of what was supposed to be his skin on his neck. He had to admit, while he’d been skeptical, it _actually_ looked like something he might encounter in the ER as a result of a freak accident. The sufferer of an injury like this would likely be far past dead, but Halloween costumes weren’t necessarily revered for their accuracies.

In addition to the slit throat, Mary had adorned John’s face with a couple faux bruises (she’d even managed to make the flesh beneath his eye look realistically swollen, to John’s amazement), a split lip, and a mild gash along one cheek which mercifully took far less time than the wound across his throat. Dark circles beneath each eye and a little makeup in the hollows of his cheeks made him look like death -- which, he supposed, was rather the point.

As he stood admiring himself, Mary had taken up the space beside him, looking in the vanity as she coaxed her blond locks, which she’d grown out to shoulder-length, into soft, loose, ringlet curls with an iron.

“What time is it?” She asked, and John looked at her reflection in the mirror as she put down the iron and grabbed a tube whose colour matched the ruby red of her fingernails. The cap came off and the chiseled tip of the lipstick was pressed to her pouted lips.

John reached for his phone with a hum, and peered at the screen as it woke up. “Nearly six,” he said, and set his phone back on the vanity. “I’ll start getting dressed, then?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but instead turned to the single bed in the room, on which laid a pile of white and red - Mary’s costume - and a folded pair of black rugby shorts and a blue jersey. They were an old practise set from a previous year that John still fit into - he hadn’t grown much in his three years of uni - and he and Mary had taken to the outfit with scissors before taking it outside to stomp into the dirt earlier in the day.

With the utmost care for his fake face and neck wounds, John pulled the jersey with its torn neckline over his head; he’d taken off his jumper and tee-shirt before Mary had started on his makeup. Then he stripped off his jeans and pulled the form-fitting rugby shorts over his briefs. After that came the stockings, rubbed in the dirt and grass and complete with a few tears, which he pulled up over his calves to just under his knees. He’d wait to donn his trainers.

“How much longer are you going to be?” he asked as he came back to stand next to Mary before the mirror, turning to the side and admiring himself in his torn and dirty uniform.

“You can’t rush beauty,” Mary mumbled from where she had her face nearly pressed against the mirror, a dark charcoal pencil held delicately in one hand.

John huffed a laugh, rolled his eyes, and turned away to flop onto his back on her bed.

 

\---

 

“How much longer are you going to be?”

“You can’t rush perfection.”

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, foot bouncing where it hung aloft in the air, crossed over his other knee. He shot a withering glare towards the silver-lined mirror on the wall which Irene stood in front of, finishing a flawless wing on her left eye with the black liquid eyeliner brush held expertly in one steady hand.

Her eyes, which looked more green than they actually were due to the deep, subtly-shimmering moss shadow that framed them, met his own in the mirror, and they danced with mirth. “You of all people should know, darling,” she teased as she set her eyeliner down in favour of a pair of false lashes, “or shall we pretend that you _didn’t_ spend thirty minutes on your coiffure?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, though his eyes surveyed his curls self-consciously in the mirror while Irene wasn’t looking. He ignored her taunt and stood from the armchair he’d been seated in, hands moving to button his fitted, black blazer as he strode to stand beside Irene before the mirror. He stood a whole head taller than her, which was something of a feat considering her height; she was tall, but petite, and the absurdly sheer, emerald nightgown she unabashedly wore proved it. “What are you even _going_ as?” he asked, his distaste clear in his tone.

“Does it matter?” She answered, the corner of her lips quirking up in an amused smirk as she finished with one set of lashes and moved to apply the next. “I’ll leave it up for interpretation. What do you think I look like?”

Dubious, Sherlock quirked a brow. “A wealthy prostitute- ow!” He sidestepped in a failed attempt to dodge the slender hand with dark, beryl green-tipped fingers that swatted at him, and when he glared at Irene’s reflection in the mirror, she looked close to laughter.

“Hush,” she admonished, though her lips were parted in a smile. “I’m going to look fabulous, and I’ll pop a pair of fangs in,” she explained, and Sherlock snorted.

“You don’t need to wear fangs for people to know you’re a bloodsucker,” he murmured as he watched her finish with her second set of lashes and reach for a tube of what he knew to be black lipstick.

“Watch what you say-” she uncapped the tube and pursed her lips before pouting them outward “-I’ve got you a pair as well. With any luck, blood won’t be the only thing you’re sucking tonight.” She ignored the look of horror on Sherlock’s face and did her best to not cackle as she applied her lipstick, darker than the night, to contrast sharply with her porcelain complexion.

“You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock narrowly avoided sputtering, and turned on his heel to storm off towards the bed.

A lavish costume that was black to match Irene’s lipstick (and her soul, Sherlock thought sardonically) was laid out neatly over the maroon duvet, and Sherlock had to force himself not to roll his eyes yet again at the absurdity of it all.

He’d made it a point to be involved in as little as possible when it came to extra-curricular activities, and he’d succeeded his first and second years at uni. Now, in his third year, apparently Irene had grown tired of not being able to boss Sherlock around at all hours of the day, and had thus decided that he was going to be her “date” to a Halloween party.

A _Halloween_ party.

With costumes and alcohol and people he didn’t know.

“Quit your sulking.” Irene’s voice cut through his thoughts from where she stood appraising her handiwork in the mirror, “you’re lucky I’m not making you wear a cape.”

Sherlock groaned loudly and flopped onto the bed.

 

\--

 

“Holy shit. Do you think it’s too late for me to try and court you?” John stared at Mary where she stood in the doorway of her bathroom, his eyes doing an exaggerated and entirely necessary sweep of her body; she wore a low-cut, cropped halter top of pristine white with a bold red cross placed strategically on each breast, a _very_ short skirt of the same white material with a bold red stripe going down the sides, a pair of black fishnet stockings that came up to cover her thighs, and a pair of strappy, red pumps to match her nails and lips.

The comment had her rolling her eyes, though her cheeks did tinge the slightest shade of pink as she came forward, hips swinging suggestively and heels clacking against the hardwood floor. “Ah-ah-ah, you don’t get to come crawling back now, Johnny Boy,” she teased, and brushed past him to grab the finishing touch to her costume - a stereotypical nurse’s cap of white with a centred red cross.

John laughed softly as she strode to the mirror once more to place it delicately atop her head; they had been friends for ages, meeting in secondary and hitting it off straight away. Sixth-form was when they’d decided to try for a relationship, but by the time they’d moved on to university they realised they were better suited as friends. John was fortunate enough to still have her as a friend, because they were a perfect fit in that regard. They’d dated, they’d been intimate, and they were both thankfully able to move past it. He thought of it more as a learning experience rather than a mistake; and Mary, brilliant as she was, thought the same.

However, none of that meant that he couldn’t still appreciate her body. And she looked fantastic in her costume, even if it was a cheesy, stereotypical one.

“Stop staring at my arse,” Mary murmured at her own reflection, words holding no bite, and John laughed.

“Fine,” he said, and sat down on the bed to occupy himself putting on his trainers.

A few quick finishing touches for Mary’s makeup and a final application of fake blood to John’s neck and uniform, as well as a little bit of product to coax his hair into an artful state of disarray, and the pair grabbed their phones and wallets before making their way out the door.

 

\--

 

Irene’s dress was as predictably extravagant as the woman herself; an off-the-shoulder thing with a plunging yet ornate neckline that left Sherlock wondering just how the _bloody_ hell she wasn’t spilling out of it. Though it probably had something to do with how snugly the black bodice hugged her waist. More attention was drawn to her bust by the emerald pendant that hung about her neck, and the green that seemed to be the underlying colour scheme for the night was mirrored in the subtle and dark velvety green of the long skirt of the dress, which was covered in a layer of elaborate, black lace. The sleeves of the gown started below Irene’s shoulders and ran the full length in dark green velvet down to taper nicely at her wrists and end in a subtly-ruffled cuff where her slim hands with emerald-painted nails and a couple flashy rings emerged. “What do you think?” she asked, black, strappy heels of an absurd height clicking primly against the marble floor as she spun a slow circle.

“I think you’re lucky the sleeves aren’t puffy and the skirt isn’t one of those mid-Victorian bustle skirts or I wouldn’t be going with you.”

Irene’s laugh filled the room as she turned to appraise herself in the mirror. “Of course not, darling. I’m trying to look appetizing; not ancient.” She brought a hand up to where she’d tucked her dark tresses into a beautifully effortless-looking updo with a modern take on Victorian elegance to tuck away a stray hair that Sherlock didn’t believe was actually there; she’d doused herself in enough hairspray to make his eyes water just by standing next to her.

“And now,” she continued, retrieving a small box from her vanity, “for the finishing touch.” After a brief moment of fussing with something Sherlock couldn’t see, she parted her black lips, which she’d glossed over with a slightly shimmering green gloss, and fitted a pair of small porcelain pieces to her teeth in her mouth.

Sherlock wandered over despite his better judgement, and looked down at a small capful of paste, what looked to be a lolly stick, and then glanced at Irene’s reflection, trying and failing to hold back a snigger at how ridiculous she looked with her fingers in her mouth, lips pulled wide apart to avoid getting lipstick on her digits. She frowned at him and made a displeased sound, which Sherlock ignored. She removed her fingers a few moments later and admired her new teeth in the mirror, before turning to Sherlock and flashing him a grin.

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” she countered, and stepped forward as he stepped back.

“Not a chance-” He stopped in his tracks, eyes opening a fraction wider as one of her green-clawed hands fisted the lapel of his blazer.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she said, voice dropping, “put the bloody teeth in, or so help me I will do it for you. I will tackle you to the ground and hold you there until you beg for mercy twice.”

He blinked at her, oddly phased by the threat. “I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.”

“ _Twice_ ,” she hissed again, and Sherlock’s throat bobbed with a swallow.

 

Ten minutes later, the pair of them exited Irene’s flat, Irene strutting triumphantly down the pavement with Sherlock trailing along beside her, his arm locked hopelessly in hers, his other hand at his mouth as he picked at and grumbled about his new fangs.

 

\--

 

Mary laughed as John kicked a crushed beer can down the pavement, displaying his footwork. “You should play football,” she said, before bursting into laughter once more when the man nearly tripped over his own feet.

Abandoning the crushed beer can on the edge of the sidewalk, John raised his hand, which held another beer can, to his lips. He’d made Mary agree to stop by his dorm to grab a few beers for his own pre-game ritual, and was close to finishing his third and final bevvy as they rounded the corner and started down a street lined with houses. It was a decent neighbourhood that was filled with university frat houses, so loud parties were almost never reported as a nuisance. The party they were attending was hosted by someone John wasn’t incredibly familiar with, but one of his best mates, Greg Lestrade, was a newly-initiated member of the fraternity and had therefore extended an invitation to John, and by extension, to Mary.

“Is that the place?” John asked, indicating forward with a nod of his head towards a house that appeared incredibly lively compared to the ones surrounding; lights of different colours emanated from the windows and John imagined he could already hear the thumping bass of whatever music was playing.

“I’d imagine so,” Mary said, looking towards the same house, and John upended his beer can to finish what was left before tossing the emptied can into a nearby bin.

As they approached the house and walked through the small army of people standing outside in costumes with cigarettes in their hands, John braced himself before leading the way inside the house.

He was met with thumping bass that nearly drowned out the melody lines of the music, and dimness which was periodically cut through by coloured lights as a couple disco-ball lights rotated where they were fixed to the ceiling in various places. Nerves already settled by the small bit of alcohol he’d consumed, John confidently pushed through the throng of people already dancing and mingling and drinking, Mary close behind him, and it wasn’t long until they ran into a familiar face.

“Watson!” Greg, his shaggy dark brown hair all askew, nose painted black and whiskers drawn on his face, fangs in his mouth, and fur peeking out from the cuffs of his flannel, stumbled out from the sea of people to greet John with an enthusiastic clap to his shoulder. “Glad you could make it, mate. And this is- wow, this is incredible,” he commented, suddenly very serious as he inspected John’s neck, pointing at the gaping wound with a clawed finger. John had nearly forgotten about it.

“That’s the work of Dr. Morstan,” John admitted with a laugh, stepping to the side to let Mary step up next to him, and Greg’s eyes snapped to her.

“Jesus,” he murmured as he surveyed her costume, to which Mary laughed.

“You’ve got a girlfriend, Greg,” she chastised teasingly, “keep your tongue in your head.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at her, but smirked.

“Speaking of,” John interjected, “how is Molly doing? Is she here tonight?”

Greg nodded, and grinned. “Yeah, she’s somewhere around here; she’s Little Red Riding Hood, if that helps you find her. I didn’t want to dress up as a wolf in gran’s fucking nighty, so I’m just a werewolf tonight,” he explained, gesturing to himself. “But I’m not sure where she is. I’ve been a bit busy trying to keep people from snorting lines in the bathroom and breaking into the rooms upstairs to shag,” he huffed with a hefty roll of his eyes, and John grimaced.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” he started, but Greg cut him off with a shrug.

“I’m the new kid here,” he said, gesturing widely with his arms and giving a small smile. “I knew what I signed up for. And it’s not really that bad. I’ve actually-- oi!” His attention was diverted to something behind both John and Mary, and the pair looked around, started. “Sorry,” Greg addressed distractedly, pushing past them, “I’ll meet up with you both for drinks later. I’ve got to take care of thi-- Chelsea!” His attention was fully torn away as he stormed off quickly to a gaggle of girls, half of them giggling, half of them shouting, surrounding a young girl wobbling on her feet and grasping another’s shoulder for support. “You’ve literally only been here ten minutes and you already look like you’re going to be sick?! Take it outside! Take it outside!”

Mary and John watched him go with a laugh shared between them, before turning back to avoid staring at Greg dealing with ‘Chelsea’ and her drunken antics. “Looks like you didn’t pre-game hard enough,” Mary quipped, and John snorted.

“I’d like to make it at least twenty minutes into the party without blacking out,” he retorted, and tipped his head towards where he knew the kitchen to be; the location was made obvious by the white-yellow light emanating from a place across the room that looked to be the only actual light in the place that was turned on and not filtered through a plastic, coloured lens. “Speaking of; care for a drink?”

Mary smiled. “Lead the way.”

 

\--

 

“You’ve got my cigarettes in your clutch, haven’t you?” Sherlock asked as he and Irene made their way down the dimly-lit sidewalk. God knew _why_ Irene decided they needed to _walk_ the entire six blocks to the party, but with each step they took, Sherlock felt his trepidation rising, his fingers twitching in his pockets (he’d managed to pry his arm from Irene’s grip) anxiously.

“I do,” Irene confirmed, patting her shimmery, dark-emerald purse which held her phone, both their wallets, and, thankfully, his smokes. “Not that you’ll be needing them,” she added, shooting him a look.

“What makes you so sure?” Sherlock asked as the pair rounded a corner onto a street, whose kerb was lined with cars, and he knew they were getting close.

“Just give it a chance, Sherlock,” the brunette woman sighed, her slim, bared shoulders slumping exaggeratedly. “Spend thirty minutes with me at this party. When that time is up, if you’re absolutely _miserable_ , you can come and find me, I’ll give you your wallet and your cancer, and you can fuck off. Okay? Is that fair?” She peered at him out of the corner of her eyes, waiting.

After feigning contemplation for a few moments, Sherlock heaved a sigh to let Irene know just how Herculian of a task this was. “Very well. I find the terms _barely_ acceptable,” he grumbled resignedly, and Irene smiled.

“Brilliant. We’re here!” she nearly squealed as they neared a fenced-in garden filled with people loitering about in costumes - or what passed as costumes, Sherlock thought as he glanced at a man wearing pineapple-themed shorts, a shirt with pineapple print, and pineapple-shaped sunglasses - all smoking cigarettes. Sherlock envied them as he was pulled past the haze of cigarette smoke and through the front door of the house that the garden led to, and he found himself pulled from the reasonably-calm chill of the night and shoved into a space that was thrumming with sound and heated by the sheer number of bodies which inhabited it. A guttural groan of dissatisfaction was swallowed up by the thumping bass, much to Sherlock’s dismay, as he was pulled eagerly by Irene through the initial crowd.

Thankfully, the further they seemed to go in the house, the less intense the music was. That was the only good thing Sherlock could say about the whole experience. He was dangerously close to pulling his mobile out of his pocket to glance at the time to determine just how much more of this he would have to suffer, when a familiar voice called out to him.

“Sherlock!” The young man’s head turned and his icy eyes softened minutely as they fell upon a girl with a braid of chestnut hair falling out from under a red hood. The girl smiled beamingly as she bounced up to the pair, wicker basket held in front of her cerulean petticoat. “Irene!”

“Molly!” Irene greeted back enthusiastically, arm unwinding from Sherlock’s to throw around the other girl, the pair sharing a laugh as they embraced. Molly pulled away and looked between the two of them.

“I can’t believe you got Sherlock to come,” she said, her chocolate eyes wide with fascination.

“I can’t either,” Sherlock quipped dryly, and Irene chortled as she slid her arm through his again and leaned into his side.

“But we make such a _fetching_ couple, darling,” she teased, and Sherlock grimaced, but didn’t get the chance to retort as another voice broke through the noise.

“Molls, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you- oh! Hey!” Greg had stepped up to toss an affectionate arm around his girlfriend’s red-draped shoulders, when he noticed who Molly was speaking to. He looked them both over and grinned. “Who let you two in?” he asked, and Irene and Molly shared a chuckle while Sherlock tilted his head in clear confusion.

“The door was unlocked,” he said, and Greg just rolled his eyes.

“Vampires need to be _invited_ in,” he explained.

As if that were a valid explanation, Sherlock thought, his frown deepening. “You did invite us. You even sent a _card._ Which was _wholly_ unnecessary; you could have just texted.”

“Yeah, but- oh, whatever.” Greg relented with a sigh and turned his attention back to Irene. “Glad you could both make it,” he said, and then turned to Molly. “I’ve got to go check and make sure the bathrooms are stocked with toilet paper. Be back soon,” he promised, and planted a quick kiss to one rosy cheek before giving a final wave of farewell and scampering off.

Sherlock managed to not roll his eyes at the public display of affection and instead turned to Molly, who was blushing obnoxiously and smiling to herself. “I- I assume he’s treating you well, then?” he asked, earning a surprised look from both her and Irene at the uncharacteristic display of almost-concern. He ignored their looks and instead waited for a response.

“Oh, um… Yes,” Molly said, her smile returning. “He’s brilliant. Really, brilliant. Thank you for asking.”

Sherlock nodded. He was happy for her, though he didn’t often let on how much he cared. She was one of his first and only friends, besides Irene and Lestrade, and a damn decent lab partner when he required one. He was glad that she had managed to let go of her unfortunate attraction to himself; that had thrown a wrench in their working together. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t glad for her choice in a partner. Lestrade, while infuriatingly dim at times, was a good bloke. Loathe as Sherlock was to admit it. And if anyone even came close to deserving Molly Hooper, he supposed Gregory Lestrade was a decent enough fit.

“Is anyone else thirsty?” Irene asked out of the blue, looking between Sherlock and Molly. “I could use a drink. Something strong.” A devious smirk played at her dark lips.

Molly grinned and piped up. “The kitchen is this way,” she directed with one hand, and then turned to lead them. “Follow me.”

 

\--

 

The open-floor plan of the house meant that the kitchen was separated from the large main room by a sort of half-wall that doubled as counter space. Said counter space was covered almost entirely with bottles of different shapes and sizes containing various colours of what could only be alcohol. The kitchen itself was rather filled with people, so Molly, Irene, and Sherlock came to stand at the great room side of the counter. That way they weren’t blinded by the full force of the kitchen’s light, and weren’t deafened by the noise in the kitchen.

Irene immediately made herself busy by perusing the alcohol selection while Molly excused herself, braving the throng of bodies in the kitchen to fetch the three of them cups. Sherlock, for his part, stood and surveyed the crowd in the main room with a withering expression, and let out a dejected sigh as he turned back to Irene. “I will never forgive you for bringing me here,” he said, but as the other turned to retort, they were both interrupted by Molly’s chipper voice summoning them as she broke through the people lingering in the kitchen doorway to rejoin them; and trailing behind her was a young woman Sherlock didn’t recognise, and a young man he recognised all too well from days spent in the labs on campus, where the windows overlooked the rugby pitch. His mouth snapped shut and Irene looked up at him with a sly grin. “You were saying?” she asked, looping her arm through his, and Sherlock didn’t get to reply before Irene plastered on a smile as Molly approached them.

“Hey,” Molly greeted, “I ran into some friends; I’d like for you both to meet Mary and John,” she said, looking to her left where the two blonds stood, smiling pleasantly. “John, Mary,” she continued, “this is Irene and Sherlock.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” the blonde girl - Mary - said, tilting her head in a polite manner that made Sherlock’s skin crawl. John, however, beamed at them both, and Sherlock’s prickly defenses quickly crumbled.

“Nice to meet you, Irene, Sherlock,” he said, and Sherlock wasn’t sure that his name had ever sounded so nice on another person’s lips.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Irene said, and Sherlock smiled amicably and nodded once in agreement.

He watched John’s eyes rove over the pair of them; starting at Irene, giving her a quick appraisal, before moving to Sherlock himself, and he could feel his body heating up where John’s eyes fell - starting at his feet and moving up his body until they locked eyes. John’s ocean blues looked momentarily startled, before a rosy blush coloured his cheeks and he averted his eyes to look at the alcohol on the counter. “Well,” he said, and cleared his throat, “I don’t know about anyone else, but I’d like a drink.” He reached for one of several bottles of beer that had been put out when Irene suddenly spoke.

“Actually,”” she began, and looked at Molly, “I was wondering if you could show me where the loo is?” she asked.

“Oh! I- yes,” Molly nodded, and looked around at the small group. “Alright, we’ll be back,” she announced as she began heading towards the staircase, Irene dropping Sherlock’s arm and following, and Mary stepped away as well.

“I could use the toilet,” she murmured by way of a farewell, and gave Sherlock and John a wave before hurrying after the other two girls, leaving the boys alone.

John watched after them before turning back to face Sherlock, and the smile that took over his face made Sherlock’s stomach do a flip. “So.”

“So,” Sherlock rejoined, and John’s eyes widened momentarily, looking almost surprised at the sound of his voice, but the expression was reigned in as the other man cleared his throat.

“Who bit who?” John asked, looking off at the staircase with a grin, catching a glimpse of the three girls travelling up it.

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked, brow furrowing as John turned back to smirk at him.

“You and Irene. You’re both vampires. Any story behind it? Did one of you turn the other?” he asked, his smile growing, and Sherlock pondered.

“I didn’t realise Halloween party costumes needed to be so elaborate.” The chuckle he received in response made the corner of his lips quirk upwards. “I suppose if one were to bite the other, it likely would have been Irene biting me… I wouldn’t put it past her to seize any opportunity to boss me around for eternity,” he said, and John snorted into the beer he was holding.

“Yeah, that’s girlfriends for you,” he murmured, and Sherlock pursed his lips.

“Ah, no. I’m not- that is, we’re not together,” he amended.

John looked astonished, eyebrows raising towards his hairline, lips parting. “How can you _not_ be together? Have you _seen_ her?” he asked.

“She… plays for her own team, I believe is the phrase,” he said with a tilt of his head, and John nodded in understanding with a hum.

“I see.” He looked off to the side, carefully deciding on his next words. “So… is your girlfriend here tonight, then?”

Sherlock blinked and bit the inside of his cheek before taking a breath. “I actually… Well. Play for my own team, as well.”

The look on John’s face when he looked back at him was carefully neutral as he slowly raised his beer to his mouth. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No,” Sherlock answered simply, and the small smile that disappeared behind the rim of the bottle in John’s hand sent something in Sherlock’s stomach aflutter.

John licked his lips when he took his drink away. “Well, you must have an absolutely rotten personality, because otherwise I don’t see how the bloody hell you’re single.” His quirky grin was more charming than it had any right to be.

The curly-haired man’s cheeks flushed slightly. “Well. Most find me abrasive at best,” he supplied, averting his eyes to study the array of liquours on the counter.

“And at worst?” John challenged, a smirk on his lips and a gleam in his lapis eyes.

Sherlock worried his bottom lip a moment before taking a fortifying breath. “I’m sure if you asked any of the people who have been unfortunate enough to cross paths with me, they’d tell you I’m a freak. That seems to be the most popular slur,” he said easily, looking down to absently examine his cuticles.

“What?” When Sherlock looked back up to the sound of John’s voice, the man’s expression had morphed into something crestfallen and perplexed. “Why?” The way John immediately rose to his defense made Sherlock’s chest ache. He found himself, for once, hating the fact that he was moments away from scaring someone else off.

“I have a particular… talent,” Sherlock weighed his words carefully, “that most people find… invasive.”

John looked dubious as he leaned against the counter. “Okay… Can you give an example?”

There it was. Sherlock took a deep breath and turned to lean his back against the counter, and he scanned the crowd who stood, unaware of his wandering eyes, mere metres away. His iridescent gaze fell upon a young woman in a short, tightly-fit dress that was white across her chest, orange over her midsection, and yellow at the short skirt. Her black hair was short and styled, shaved on one side, and she stood shifting her weight between her feet which were clad in strappy, black heels. Over her right shoulder was a small, white purse. In her left hand was a red cup, which she steadily sipped from with rose-red lips.

“Her,” he said, motioning with a subtle nod of his head. “The girl in the atrocious candy-corn costume.” He glanced to John and watched his eyes move to the girl. “Do you know her?”

John nodded his head. “Yeah. Annie. What about her?”

“She’s had a recent falling-out with her former fiancé,” Sherlock stated, and John’s head whirled about in his peripheral vision to look at him.

“You know her?” he asked, surprised, and Sherlock shook his head.

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Her left hand,” Sherlock said, gesturing with another nod, “there’s a significant tan line on her ring finger, and the slight indentation from the ring has yet to disappear. She’s recently taken it off. It’s becoming more common practise for women to cut their hair after ending a long-term relationship, which she clearly has done; there’s a longer black hair, more than likely hers, caught in the zipper of her bag, and the haircut is obviously fresh, as is evident from the closeness and consistency of the shaved portion of her head.”

He barreled on, barely stopping to take a breath. “This costume was last-minute. Originally, I’m willing to bet she and her significant other had planned a couples-themed set of costumes, but seeing as they’ve split up, she couldn’t arrive at a party as one half of something that was no longer whole. She missed a tag on the skirt of her dress,” he said, eyes moving to where a small white tag peeked out from under the side of the yellow trim of the skirt, “and she didn’t have time to plan her footwear, and is now regretting it; see how she shifts her weight on her feet? The heels are uncomfortable. So much so that she walked here barefoot - there are subtle grass-stains and scuffs from the pavement on her heels.

“She’s looking for a rebound, evident by the vibrant shade of red on her nails and lips… but she’s not completely ready to let go of him. The small, heart-shaped locket around her neck could be from a family member, but every time she looks at another man, she bites her lip and her free hand moves to fiddle with the locket. So, he left her. Sentiment, she would have gotten rid of it if it were the other way around.” He finished and let out a long exhale through his nose, jaw setting as he readied himself for the inevitable outburst; _‘freak, bastard, insensitive, machine-’_

_“Incredible.”_

Sherlock blinked once, twice, and then his brow creased with confusion as he looked to his side at John, expression carefully guarded. He was met with a face so open and earnest in its awe, he nearly forgot how to breathe. “Sorry?” he managed to croak out.

“That was… amazing,” John said again, sounding breathless himself. A grin stretched his lips. “Absolutely astounding,” he reiterated, smiling at Sherlock like he was a _treasure._

After a beat, Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away. “Well. That’s not what people normally say.”

“And what do they normally say?” John asked, looking at Sherlock with expectancy.

 _“Piss off,”_ Sherlock said pointedly, his lips parting in a toothy (and fangy) smile when he heard John’s responding snort that dissolved into adorably high-pitched giggles.

“Jesus,” John said, bringing a hand up to dab under one eye once he’d regained some semblance of control. “That is incredible. Wow.”

Sherlock looked down at his feet to hide his smile, and pushed away from the counter to face John head-on. “Enough about me,” he murmured, a flush rising to his cheeks as he dared to meet John’s eyes again. “What about you? I will say, the makeup is impeccable,” he said, eyes trailing down to John’s neck.

“Oh, this?” John asked, seeming to just remember that he had blood dripping down his neck and shirt. “Yeah, it looks pretty cool, doesn’t it? Mary did it,” the man said, gesturing vaguely towards where Mary had been standing mere minutes prior.

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded, and gnawed the inside of his cheek. “Bit of an unorthodox couples costume,” he said, “but I suppose if anyone is going to be able to help an injured rugby player, it would be a nurse; regardless of her state of dress.”

John’s eyes widened, and his cheeks coloured. “Oh, no, we’re not- Mary and I aren’t together,” he said with a shy smile, and then he blessedly answered Sherlock’s unspoken question with what he said next. “I’m actually not seeing anyone, at the moment.”

“Oh?” Sherlock leaned as casually as possible against the counter. “Why not?” He nearly flinched at his own question, but apparently he hadn’t dug his hole deep enough, because he kept talking. “You seem like someone who would be well sought-after.”

“Well that makes two of us, then,” John said, his smile bordering on salacious. Sherlock’s throat bobbed with a swallow, and his eyes watched the pink tip of John’s tongue dart out from between his lips to moisten them in a quick motion before he asked: “Can I get you a drink?”

God, was it possible for someone’s heart to break through one’s own ribs? “Please,” Sherlock managed, and it was a wonder he was still standing after the smile John flashed him as he reached for a cup on the counter.

“What do you like? Strong, sweet, dry…? There’s all sorts of stuff here,” the blond said, rummaging through the selection of bottles.

Among the bottles were several mixers, including a jug of dark, red liquid. “If there’s cranberry juice, I’d have that with vodka,” Sherlock suggested. A bit of liquid courage wouldn't go amiss.

“One vodka cranberry, coming right up.” John retrieved one of several bottles of clear alcohol and a half-full jug of cranberry juice, and carefully measured out with a practised hand a moderate amount of vodka before drowning it in juice. The drink finished, John handed it over to Sherlock with a smile, and Sherlock thanked him with a nod.

The drink was tart, as Sherlock expected, and he pulled a slight face as the first sip went burning down his throat. John’s expression was amused.

“Not good?” the other asked, nursing his own beer.

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s fine. I just don’t have much of a taste for alcohol,” he said, and took another mouthful, doing his best not to grimace.

“Well you don’t have to _drink_ it, fuck’s sake,” John laughed with a shake of his head.

“Social lubricant,” Sherlock responded. “I’ve been told I’m far better to get to know when even slightly intoxicated.”

John hummed into his beer. “Mm. Well, I think I’d like to get to know you sober.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, as his mouth was busy with his cup, but his eyes widened.

“Looks like I’ll just have to meet with you some other time to get to know you-”

John was cut off by a sputter as Sherlock nearly choked on his drink, just barely managing to swallow before coughs wracked his body. He set his drink down on the counter before doubling over, a hand on his chest as he clenched his eyes against the burning sensation in his nose. He felt a steadying hand on his back as he gradually regained control of his breathing.

“Christ,” John quipped, “you could have just said ‘no’.”

Sherlock’s coughs transformed into deep, rumbling chuckles as he rose back to his full height, cheeks flushed and eyes rimmed with the faintest hint of tears as he smiled at John. “Actually,” he began, and cleared his throat one more time, “I think that would be- I think that would be lovely. Assuming you’ve not already imbibed enough alcohol to impair your judgement this evening.”

John grinned. “I can hold my alcohol. And this is only beer number five,” he said, lifting his bottle to take a small sip. Sherlock mirrored the action with his own cup.

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock let his eyes drift to look at John’s profile; John’s eyes were on the other guests in the house as he gingerly sipped his drink, and Sherlock took advantage of the pause in their conversation to appreciate the face that lay beneath layers of makeup. The false gash on his cheek wasn’t enough to cover up the man’s strong features; his jawline was prominent, skin tanned in a way that hardly made sense for London’s weather. His short and sandy blond hair was mussed in a stylishly casual way, and below it, tawny brows sat atop orbs of blue, and Sherlock could see the shadows of John’s absurdly long lashes fall on his mildly-ruddy cheeks whenever the lights from the coloured disco balls swept over them.

It was at this point in his inspection of the other that John decided to glance to the side, and as their eyes met, John’s lips curled in a sweet smile. Sherlock returned it without expressly giving himself permission to.

“So, Sherlock Holmes,” John said, turning to face him once more and taking the smallest of steps closer, “how do you know Molly?”

Sherlock set his cup down on the counter. “I met her my first year at Bart’s,” he began. “We’ve shared several chemistry courses over the past few years. Our acquaintanceship has been convenient for the times in class where partners are required,” he said, his face morphing into one of mild distaste.

“A man of science, then,” John surmised, and Sherlock nodded.

“I’m getting my degree in chemistry.”

“It’s a shame we’ve never had a course together. I’m in pre-med at Bart’s,” John said.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows a fraction. “Academic and sports scholarship?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

John’s smile was stunning. “Yes. I’ve been captain of the rugby team for two years now,” he said with a hint of pride.

“I know,” Sherlock said, “I’ve seen you on the pitch.”

“Have you?” John asked. “That’s hardly fair, that you’ve seen me and I haven’t seen you. You should have come and said hello.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lips quirked upwards in a grin. “Mm. Well, we’ve met properly now.” He couldn’t tell if the heat in his cheeks was from the vodka-heavy cocktail working its way through his system, or if it was from the heat John seemed to fuel in his chest and stomach. More than likely, it was a combination of both factors. Sherlock found he didn’t entirely mind. And it was because he didn’t entirely mind that he turned to the counter and helped himself to another cup of vodka-dominant vodka cranberry, and he caught John out of the corner of his eyes watching him raptly.

“You’re really that wound up?” the blond asked with a small smile when Sherlock finished pouring and lifted the cup to his lips for a drink. His nose wrinkled; this cup was much more potent than the last.

“I really dislike parties,” Sherlock confirmed with an exhale and a nod once he’d swallowed. “And Irene has my cigarettes.”

John laughed and stepped away from the counter. “We can go find her and nab them, then step outside?” he suggested. “The back garden wasn’t horribly crowded last I saw.”

“No, it’s alright.” The brunette let out a sigh. “She told me I had to stay here for thirty minutes. Then I can get my things from her and leave.” He wondered why he agreed to the deal in the first place.

“Half an hour? And then you’re leaving?” John asked, looking suddenly crestfallen.

Sherlock parted his lips to speak, but was cut off. “Well-”

“How much time have you got left?” John asked, and Sherlock’s brows knitted together as he reached into his pocket with the hand not preoccupied with holding his drink, pulling out his mobile to glance at the time.

“Six minutes?” Sherlock approximated, and put his phone back in his pocket. He was about to tell John that he didn’t _plan_ on leaving in six minutes - especially not if John didn’t _want_ him to - but the look on John’s face, thoughtful and bordering on mischievous, stopped him. The shorter man’s eyes turned up in the direction of one large speaker mounted on the wall near them as the music streaming out of it changed, and a resounding cheer emanated from the crowd as they seemingly recognised the song.

“Six minutes is perfect,” John said, setting his emptied bottle on the counter before extending his free hand to Sherlock. “Just enough time for a dance.” The suggestion and the smile that accompanied it were easy, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, asking Sherlock Holmes to dance.

Sherlock stared at the proffered hand for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary, trying desperately to quell the not-entirely-unpleasant churning in his gut, and as the synthesized xylophone that came through the speakers was joined by the rhythmic, percussive sounds of hands on an acoustic guitar, he raised his cup to his lips and quaffed the remains of red-hued drink. The heat that seared his throat was no match for the flame in his chest as he set the emptied cup down and looked back at John, whose eyes were as bright as his blinding smile. He slid his hand into John’s, only able to admire for the briefest of moments how lovely the juxtaposition between his long, pale fingers and John’s shorter, thicker, tanned digits was, before John was pulling him away from the counter and into the group of undulating, swaying bodies.

It couldn’t be entirely blamed on the alcohol, the fact that Sherlock’s core body temperature seemed to skyrocket when he was forced to stand mere inches from the rugby player with sandy blond hair, but it certainly contributed.

Some lyrics that Sherlock couldn’t entirely decipher over the din of the people around them streamed through the speakers, but it hardly mattered, because John was giving him a captivating smile and inching closer.

“Are you always this tense?” John asked, the question posed with a chuckle and words trailing into an almost-imperceptible slur.

Self-consciously, Sherlock looked around - and rationally, he knew that no one was paying attention to them. Everyone was absorbed in their own dances with their own partners - and then it occurred to him that John was his _partner_ , and the flush that sprang anew to his cheeks as he looked back to John did not go unnoticed.

“Oh, that’s quite fetching,” the shorter man crooned, reaching up to place a hand seemingly unthinkingly on Sherlock’s jaw, as he swayed back and forth subtly with the music, his thumb brushing over one prominent cheekbone. Sherlock’s lips parted, but no sound came out. The alcohol was starting to take its toll on his faculties, narrowing his area of focus to the rough, calloused hand on his jaw and the handsome face before him. “Come on, Sherlock,” John tried, tilting his head, “your body was _made_ for dancing…”

 _‘Boy, let’s not talk too much,’_ sang the voice over the speakers, and Sherlock bit his lip as John’s hand dropped from his jaw to slide down his front. _‘Grab on my waist and put that body on me,’_ the voice with the Irish lilt continued as both of John’s hands came to settle on the subtle dip just above Sherlock’s hips, and the brunette opted to take the advice of the song and follow John’s lead.

With a shaky exhale, Sherlock raised a tentative hand to rest against John’s chest, just over a tear in his battered jersey, and the heat that radiated from the spot of contact grounded him. He began to move, reservations swept away with his inhibitions as the alcohol in his system took its course. His hips swayed, knees bending, body moving where John’s hands gently guided him. His other hand found its way to John’s waist, much to the other man’s delight, if the grin that spread across his face was any indication.

All of a sudden, with the change of verse in the song, came a change in motion; John’s hands trailed down Sherlock’s hips and along the outsides and fronts of his thighs as John lowered his own body with a systematic swaying of his shoulders and hips in a slow snaking towards the floor to the tune of _‘I’m in love with the shape of you’_ until his eyes were level with Sherlock’s navel, but the taller man didn’t get to appreciate the sight of mischievous blue eyes shining at him from such a lovely vantage point for long before John was working his way back to standing, his hands leaving a searing trail of heat wherever they fell, up Sherlock’s thighs and over his hips to fall once again at his waist.

Breath caught in his throat, Sherlock didn’t hesitate in putting an arm over John’s shoulder the moment he was stood upright again, fingers moving to tangle themselves in the golden locks at the nape of his neck. The movement earned a pleased hum from the shorter man, who tightened his grasp on Sherlock’s hips and pulled - more of a suggestion than a demand, which Sherlock followed without question - until their fronts were pressed nearly flush against each other.

Sherlock raised his other hand to John’s other shoulder, hardly able to process the feeling of the warm, solid body against his own; everything was a blur. Their own bodies were a blur, barely distinguishable from each other as they moved together fluidly, the space between them quickly disappearing. Their foreheads brushed, Sherlock’s head tilted down while John’s was tipped just the slightest bit up to make up for their difference in height, and Sherlock was certain he was radiating light, each point of contact between himself and John sending sparks of electricity flying beneath his skin until he was enveloped in an embrace of crackling heat.

Their breath mingled in the scant space between their faces, and Sherlock caught traces of wheat and barley with an underlying tone of leathery cologne in the air they shared. John’s forehead brushed against his again and Sherlock opened his eyes - _when had he closed them?_ \- to find John’s looking at him. Except they weren’t looking at his eyes; they were looking at his mouth. Reflexively, Sherlock licked his lips, and John’s eyes darted up to meet his. They looked glassy, mildly blood-shot, and _hungry._ A tightening of John’s hands resulted in an involuntary grind of their hips, and Sherlock gasped at the consequential jolt that traveled down his spine from the base of his neck and to his groin. Another, more purposeful undulation of hips from John had Sherlock pulling his own bottom lip between his teeth, his fingers tightening in John’s hair as he stifled his own noises.

And it was abundantly clear by the burgeoning tumescence making its interest in the proceedings known against Sherlock’s thigh, that he wasn’t the only one affected by their intimate dance.

The final verse of the song ended abruptly, leaving Sherlock and John still pressed to each other, breathing labouredly - but not from exertion. Sherlock searched John’s eyes in a silent question; one that the blond seemed to understand, because he nodded, and when Sherlock nodded back, John pulled hastily away and grabbed Sherlock by the wrist, pulling him back through the crowd.

Sherlock didn’t know where they were going, but he kept close to John’s back, his heart racing faster when John’s hand loosened to slide from his wrist to his hand, their fingers twining instantly together. Sherlock’s other hand moved to grasp John’s bicep, if only to have something else to hold onto.

With John in the lead, they emerged from the thickest part of the crowd and wound their way through other mingling groups of people before they came to stand before a door that led under the staircase. Sherlock, pawed at John’s shoulders as John worked the doorknob with a clumsy hand, and as the door opened and he turned around, Sherlock all but tackled him back into the dark room that had been revealed, hands clutching at the fabric of John’s jersey.

Somewhere deep within Sherlock’s subconscious, he registered the scents of dust and cleaning supplies in the darkened room, and he heard the slam of the door behind them as John kicked it shut, but at the forefront of his mind was the feeling of John’s warm breath against his face, of John’s hands grasping at his lapels, at his waist, at John’s voice, soft and breathy with a sense of urgency as it spoke his name… and then, finally, John’s mouth, warm and solid and wet, crushing against his own.

A noise of desperation sounded from the back of Sherlock’s throat, high-pitched and needy, his hands grasping at John’s shoulders, searching for purchase as John’s mouth moved relentlessly against his own, lips parting to slide a wet tongue over the crease of Sherlock’s. The brunette let out a whimper, but it turned into a yelp when John captured his lips in another bruising kiss. Despite himself, Sherlock lifted his chin to break the kiss, heaving a laboured breath and wincing at the dark ceiling. “Jo- _oh_ ,” he gasped as John’s opened mouth latched onto Sherlock’s neck.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, trying to get the other’s attention, but it allegedly came across as a sigh of passion, the answer coming in the form of an acknowledging hum against Sherlock’s carotid. Sherlock’s hips gave an involuntary jerk forward at the teasing brush of teeth against his throat, followed by the soothing sweep of a tongue that had him making a noise dangerously close to a squeak. _“John,”_ he tried again, his hand reaching up to grip tightly to hair at the back of John’s head, when a noise behind them followed by multicoloured light spilling into the small space made them freeze.

They both whipped their heads around to look in the direction of the door, their visages mirroring expressions of bewilderment as they looked at who had interrupted them.

“Oops! Sorry, lads,” a man with another bloke nearly draped over his shoulder said with a polite smile, “just looking for a bathroom. Carry on,” he said, and shut the door without another word, leaving John and Sherlock alone, panting, and dazed.

It was John who began laughing first; it started as a shake of his shoulders accompanied by a breathy chuckle, but it soon devolved into a high-pitched, adrenaline-fueled giggle. It wasn’t long before Sherlock’s deep, baritone joined in, his laugh watery with the alcohol and endorphins flooding his system.

“This is the most - ridiculous thing - I’ve ever done,” John managed between his laughs and heaving breaths.

“What,” Sherlock said, his smile audible in his words, “drunkenly snogging in a broom closet?”

“Drunkenly snogging the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on after only knowing him for about twenty minutes in a broom closet,” John amended, laughing again.

Sherlock leaned his head back against a shelf. “Well. While I’m not entirely _grateful_ for the interruption-” John snorted “-I was _trying_ to tell you that I have my bloody _fangs_ in,” he said, “and they are more than a touch uncomfortable.” He raised a hand to stick his pointer finger and thumb into his mouth to twist and pull at one of his fangs. “Hhow go yoo geh veeze phucking phingz ouh,” he murmured to himself, and John laughed again.

“Would Irene have any clue?” he asked, and moved, cursing as something with a wooden handle clattered to the floor. “There should be a light in here,” he grumbled, staggering towards the door.

“Whaar arre y-- where are you going?” Sherlock asked petulantly as John opened the closet door, though he was arrested by the sly grin John cast him.

“I was thinking, maybe, we could find a place where we’d be less likely to be disturbed,” he suggested, and any arguments Sherlock had died on his lips as he moved to follow John through the door, much to the shorter man’s apparent amusement. He reached behind him to grab Sherlock’s hand, lacing their fingers together almost immediately. Sherlock wondered at how naturally the action came.

It wasn’t until a set of familiar voiced registered in his ears that Sherlock bothered to look away from the surname spanning John’s upper back at all, and when he did, he was met with a kind smile from Molly, and a knowing one from both Mary and Irene.

“Come for your things then, Sherlock?” Irene asked, opening up her purse and pulling out a white carton, a lighter, and a wallet to hand over to him.

“Yes, I’m- heading home,” he said, knowing he didn’t sound quite as confident as he’d intended to, but John’s hand in his own grounded him.

“Mm, I can see that,” Irene hummed, flashing both boys a salacious grin before waving them away with a flippant flick of one wrist. “Go, then. You boys have a good night,” she finished with a wink, and Sherlock didn’t even wait for a farewell from the other two women before he was tugging John along with him and heading for the front door.

They burst through into the cool night air, and John chuckled breathily as he had to almost jog to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides. “Eager, are we?” he asked teasingly, and Sherlock grinned.

“Something like that,” he responded, and it was then he realised he wasn’t exactly sure where they were going. “Where are we going?”

“Not too sure,” John admitted. “I was following you.”

“Would you- I mean. Um.” Sherlock slowed his pace a bit, chewing on the inside of one cheek. He looked over to where John was looking up at him with hopeful, expectant eyes. “Would you, perhaps, care to come back to my flat?” he asked carefully.

In hindsight, he needn’t have been worried about the answer he would receive. John’s lips stretched into a wide, toothy grin, and his eyes shimmered in the dim glow of the streetlamps. “ _God_ , yes,” he all but breathed, and that was all the confirmation Sherlock needed.

They strode the rest of the distance to the end of the street, and neither of them could explain the sudden, miraculous appearance of an unoccupied taxi cab, but they didn’t question it as Sherlock hailed it and they climbed in.

“221 Baker Street,” Sherlock addressed the taxi driver as he got settled, and the moment John shut his door, they were off.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter coming this evening to wrap up this all-important holiday! Thank you so very much for reading! Your feedback as readers is paramount, so please, don't hesitate to let me know what you think. Thanks again, and I'll see you back here soon!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: it's porn. Shameless, shameless porn. Sorry.

The taxi ride was spent in relative silence, with both young men in the back seat staying pressed against their respective doors, as if the distance between them couldn’t be breached at all, lest they both lose every ounce of what little restraint they had.

It only took about ten minutes for the cab to carry them from the party back to Sherlock’s flat, and in that time, Sherlock had managed to pry the false fangs from his canines while John watched on with obvious amusement. By the time they were exiting the taxi, they were both laughing giddily, their spirits raised by the company they shared along with the drinks they’d imbibed, and Sherlock only fumbled a little bit with the keys as he stood in front of the door to his home; though it didn’t exactly help that John was pressed solidly against his back, which made it incredibly difficult to focus on the task of unlocking the bloody door.

Finally, the door yielded and Sherlock spilled inside, followed closely by John, who shut the door and proceeded to chase Sherlock up the stairs, both of them laughing as they went. When he reached the top of the second landing, Sherlock turned around and was met with an armful of John Watson; which he didn’t mind in the least.

Their mouths connected and Sherlock gasped against John’s lips as they both stumbled through the doorway to Sherlock’s sitting room, sending the door flying back and clattering against the wall. Distantly, Sherlock thought that his landlady would have some harsh words for him in the morning - and then all thought ceased when John’s lips parted and his tongue prodded at the seam of Sherlock’s, and the taller man responded to the unspoken plea by parting his own lips. The sensation of John’s tongue invading his mouth to dance sinfully with his own sent a pang of need through Sherlock’s body, and his hands grasped desperately at John; at his hips, at his waist, at his shoulders, biceps, at the fabric covering his chest. In response, John hummed, deepening the kiss and pressing Sherlock back against the closest wall.

Pinned between John’s study frame and the wallpaper of his hallway, Sherlock whined against the shorter man’s mouth. The sound transformed into a whimper when John’s fingers clumsily pulled at the buttons of Sherlock’s blazer. The garment was quickly undone, John’s hands leaving searing trails of heat up Sherlock’s torso to his shoulders under the blazer to push the offending garment off. It fell to the floor with a soft  _ ‘whoosh’ _ of fabric, instantly forgotten by both men.

The buttons of Sherlock’s shirt where next, undone with surprising efficiency; not that Sherlock was in the right frame of mind to admire it. His head was swimming, focus narrowed to where his and John’s lips connected and moved against one another; he was unexpectedly thankful for his state of slight-inebriation, which made it possible to blame the clumsy movements of his tongue and lips on the drink rather than attribute it to his lack of experience in matters such as this. Not that John seemed to mind in the least; the man broke away from Sherlock’s mouth and muttered a breathy curse as his lips kissed a burning trail along Sherlock’s jaw, down his neck, and along his clavicle.

The wet sounds of John’s mouth working along Sherlock’s skin mingled with the soft noises of desperation that left Sherlock’s lips as the taller man’s head tipped back against the wall, eyes staring blearily at the ceiling. All the while, John’s hands worked between them to undo the remaining buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat and turned into a strangled noise when John cleverly inserted one foot between Sherlock’s, his thigh pressing against Sherlock’s groin. 

Evidently, Sherlock had as little control over his body as he did his voice, because his hips undulated against the point of contact without thought, seeking friction, and the motion made John groan into the dip at the base of his throat, the sound seeming to reverberate through Sherlock’s chest.

John’s hands -  _ God, John’s hands _ \- skimmed over the newly-revealed skin of his abdomen once the last shirt button was undone. Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined he could feel the ridges of John’s fingerprints as the man’s calloused digits traversed his pale flesh, grasping at his sharp hipbones, indulgently squeezing his waist, trailing up to feel the ridges of his ribs, and then coming to flatten themselves against his pectorals.

Sherlock’s back arched away from the wall as a stifled, high-pitched groan of surprise left him when John’s thumbs found the sensitive, dusky pink buds of of nipples and began sweeping back and forth over them rhythmically.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, his own hands having a difficult time deciding what part of John’s body to rest on; he pulled at the man’s jersey, buried his fingers in his hair, gripped his arm. John merely hummed lowly in response against Sherlock’s upper chest. His head lowered, lips kissing a reverent trail downwards, and Sherlock gasped in realisation before John even reached his destination; and when John’s tongue took the place of his left thumb, Sherlock’s voice tore from him in a surprised yelp. John’s lips, soft and warm, enveloped the hardened bud of flesh, applying the barest amount of suction while his tongue teased the flesh inside his mouth. 

The barest graze of teeth against his nipple made Sherlock squeak in surprise, his chest pressing further against John’s face, and Sherlock could feel John’s smile and hear his chuckle against him.

Just when Sherlock thought it wasn’t possible to be any more tormented, between John’s mouth on one nipple, his thumb teasing the other, and their mirroring erections grinding against each other’s thighs, John proved him wrong by raking the fingernails of his left hand down his front, making the muscles in his stomach tremble at the touch. 

“Oh, God,” Sherlock gasped out when John’s fingers brushed through the soft dusting of dark hair below his navel to hook suggestively into the front of the waistband of his trousers. A hum emitted from down by his chest, followed by a voice: “ _ ‘John’ _ will do just fine, thank you,” the cheeky quip came, voice muffled both by alcohol and by Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock managed a weak and breathy laugh, a smile gracing his features as he shook his head in silent disbelief at the ceiling.

With a soft, wet sound, John’s mouth ceased its assault on Sherlock’s sensitive flesh and kissed its way back up to his throat, and trailing a wet line with his tongue to nip at his earlobe. Sherlock tilted his head with a hum to allow John better access to his flesh. “May I?” John asked, voice but a whisper against the shell of Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock couldn’t do anything but enthusiastically nod his consent when John’s fingers tugged in clarification at his waistband.

He could feel a smile against the side of his throat as John’s other hand left his chest and skimmed down to assist in the unfastening of his trousers. The moment the garment was shimmied a short distance further down on his hips, John’s left hand dipped into the front to firmly caress the length of Sherlock’s hardening prick through his pants. 

Startled by the new sensation of a foreign hand against him, even through a layer of fabric, Sherlock’s vision crackled at the edges and he let out a groan as his hips rolled forward into John’s touch. The resulting grind of his thigh against the hardness at John’s groin had the shorter man whimpering something desperate against Sherlock’s throat.

It wasn’t long before John’s hand retreated, much to Sherlock’s dismay - and he let it be known in a displeased whine, which John laughed in response to - but what came next, after John pulled his mouth away from where it was sucking a mark into Sherlock’s neck to lick a broad stripe over the palm of his hand, was well worth the wait.

“Oh,  _ fuck _ .” It was rare for Sherlock to curse, but he believed that the current situation, with John’s dampened hand working its way into his pants to grasp his cock and its base and slide upwards in one firm stroke to swipe his thumb over the already-leaking head, more than merited it. John’s forehead was pressed to Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock looked down and groaned at the sight of the reddened and glistening head of his cock peeking out from the gap John’s hand created between the waistband of his pants and his lower stomach. He watched, mesmerised, breath leaving him in short, quick gusts punctuated with soft whines, as John’s hand worked him, twisted around and set a slow, but steady rhythm.

The sight, combined with the sensations of John’s hand, firm and confident around him, were too much, and Sherlock had to look away, instead turning to bury his nose in John’s hair, his eyes falling closed. The man smelled like beer, sweat, and hair product. 

Sherlock’s hips rolled to the rhythm that John set, pushing into his hand and pushing his thigh into the space between John’s simultaneously, but their rhythm faltered when John suddenly dropped to his knees. Sherlock’s eyes flew open and blinked blearily down at the man depositing kisses on his abdomen, and he gasped at a playful bite to the skin covering one hipbone, and before he even got the chance to question John’s motives, his pants were pulled down around the tops of his thighs with his trousers and John was murmuring, “cor, Sherlock, you’re beautiful,” and suddenly the tip of his cock was engulfed in wet heat.

Gasping, Sherlock’s hands fisted John’s golden locks, and his hips gave an involuntary twitch away from the wall, pushing his length a short distance into John’s mouth. The other man made a sound of surprise laced with amusement, and moved his hands to Sherlock’s hips to pin them against the wall. Sherlock groaned helplessly when John’s eyes, devious and dark with lust, peered up at him. That, combined with the sight of the end of Sherlock’s length disappearing between those perfect lips, made the brunette shudder.

Thankfully, John didn’t keep still for more than a moment, and began sliding his lips slowly down the length of Sherlock’s shaft while his tongue inside his mouth encircled the blunt head and teased his frenulum as it was revealed, his foreskin pulled back as he reached full hardness. The sounds spilling from Sherlock’s lips were incoherent, mouth half-forming around John’s name before settling on a fitting expletive instead, or giving praise to deities that may or may not exist in the hopes that this never ended because  _ Jesus he’d never felt anything like this- _

When John applied suction and sped up his pace, it was all Sherlock could do not to shout. When John groaned around his cock like it was a succulent treat, sending delicious vibrations through his length, Sherlock couldn’t be blamed for shouting. It trailed off into a whimper, which turned into a gasp when his cockhead nudged the back of John’s throat, and he looked down in amazement to see the man’s brow furrowed in concentration as he held himself there. 

Then his throat closed around him and Sherlock saw stars. Distantly, he was thankful for his hips being pinned to the wall, because the last thing he wanted to do was hurt John, and the rest of his body was out of his control. One hand gripped John’s hair so roughly that he would have to remember to apologise for it later, while his other hand flailed against the wall behind him, seeking some sort of purchase. His back arched away from the wall and his breath left him in a choked-off sob. The heat that had pooled low in his belly turned into a coil, winding tighter and hotter with each moment that passed as John pulled back to work the tight ring of his mouth up and down his shaft, engulfing almost all of Sherlock’s length in velvety heat with every bob of his head. The coil grew tighter and Sherlock could feel every muscle in his body start to tense, starting at his toes and traveling up his legs to his spine, and he knew he was close.

The hand in John’s hair tugged and his voice came out strained. “John,” he pleaded, head tossing from side to side against the wall, “close- oh  _ fuck- _ ”

With a final, slow pull back, John let Sherlock’s cock fall from his lips with a soft, wet  _ ‘pop’ _ , leaving Sherlock in complete and utter turmoil; his hips strained against where John held them fast against the wall, but before he could voice his protest, his mouth was claimed in a bruising kiss.

Momentarily startled by how quickly John had stood, Sherlock took a fraction of a second to reciprocate. But once he did, he groaned at the taste of himself mingled with beer on John’s tongue and made an attempt to seek out every trace of it that resided in John’s mouth with his own tongue. John moaned his approval, and Sherlock realised belatedly that John’s shoulder was jostling as his hand worked between them, and Sherlock broke the kiss to look down and see John’s hand pumping his own cock, ruddy and thick and leaking at the tip.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John forced out through gritted teeth, “you are fucking- incredible- ah,  _ shit _ .” Sherlock smiled triumphantly at the expletive when he reached down to wrap his hand around John’s, but after a few strokes of their joined hands, John shooed him away. “Just- hold on- here-”

Sherlock’s lips parted in a soft “oh” of fascination when John guided their pricks to line up, John’s slightly shorter but significantly thicker, while Sherlock’s mirrored the rest of his body, long and slim. John’s hand wrapped around as much of both of them as he could manage, and Sherlock followed his lead to complete the circle with his own hand, fingers overlapping John’s around their lengths. They both let out deep groans of satisfaction at the first stroke, and John’s breath came out in hisses while Sherlock’s came out in quick, soft sighs.

And while Sherlock longed to prolong this and bask in the lights flashing behind his eyelids, in the breathy pants breaking against his clavicle and the feeling of his and John’s intertwined hands working them both to climax, he knew he wasn’t going to last forever. As it turned out, he wasn’t going to last another full minute; with a few more steady and firm strokes of his and John’s hands, Sherlock’s lungs filled themselves to capacity and his entire body seized. His back arched away from the wall a final time and a moment later, his release was painting his own stomach white. His eyes opened to find John’s eyes boring into his with a look of unbridled awe as he came, and the next moment his lips were captured in a kiss that had no right to be as earnest and tender as it was.

He moaned helplessly into John’s mouth as he rutted into their fists, and John gave a muffled shout into his own at the new sensation. Sherlock’s own hand began to grow slack as his hips slowed, his climax receding and taking all of his energy with it. He was about to wince from oversensitivity as John’s hand moved desperately faster, but with a final grunt, John’s lips parted from Sherlock’s as he reached completion, his semen joining Sherlock’s to paint the taller man’s stomach and stain the front of his own jersey.

Panting, breathless, and dizzy, Sherlock let his head fall back to thump against the hallway wall with a heaving sigh, and John, equally exhausted, let his forehead rest against Sherlock’s shoulder.

They were both quiet save for the sounds of their breaths, slowly coming back to themselves together, before John’s muddled voice emanated from between them.

“Fuck.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh that was dangerously close to a giggle. “Quite.”

John’s own laugh mingled with his own and after another moment, the shorter man pulled away, took a step back (much to Sherlock’s disappointment), and looked down at Sherlock, then at himself. “Well, we’ve made a proper mess,” he assessed, and Sherlock, looking down at them both, agreed with a hum.

“Flannels in the bathroom,” he slurred, raising a hand to gesture vaguely down the hall, and he carefully pushed himself away from the wall with a grunt, before beginning to waddle awkwardly, one hand grasping the waistband of his trousers and pants to keep them from falling. John, clearly amused, giggled at the hilarious display and only grew louder when Sherlock shot him a look that lacked any genuine heat whatsoever. Hiding his own smirk, Sherlock led the way into the bathroom and turned on the light; and regretted it immediately.

He groaned at the yellow glow and John made a displeased sound behind him as he made his way to the sink, grabbed a flannel from the rack beside it, wet it under a warm tap, and set to cleaning himself up. John sidled up beside him and watched, and Sherlock felt his skin break into gooseflesh under the scrutiny, before he looked to the side and saw John’s eyes raking over him with a satiated smile. Sherlock raised his eyebrow in inquiry when John’s eyes locked with his, and watched John’s smile soften.

“Just admiring you for the first time in proper lighting,” he murmured, and his smile broadened when Sherlock’s cheeks flushed. Sherlock couldn’t hide his smile this time.

“Well you,” he countered with a teasing grin, turning his attention back to himself as he rinsed the soiled flannel and tucked himself back into his pants and trousers, “look ghastly.”

Looking perplexed for a moment, John turned to the mirror, and his eyes widened. “Oh, Christ. I- wow.” His makeup had been smeared, the cut on his lip having long been kissed away and the bloodied gash on his cheek disturbed. Sherlock noticed corresponding evidence of their union on his own neck and upper chest, where smears of fake blood marred his pale skin. He snorted in amusement as he took the rinsed flannel and quickly wiped the marks away.

Meanwhile, John was leaning closer to the mirror, glassy, bloodshot eyes lazily studying his own visage as tentative fingers - which Sherlock couldn’t help but remember were wrapped around him mere minutes prior - prodded at the makeup on his neck.

And as much as Sherlock would have liked to stick around for the cleanup, he felt dead on his feet, and when he looked in the mirror at his own face, gaunt with fatigue, eyes as glassy and red as John’s, he thought he rather looked dead on his feet, as well. “I need to sit down,” he announced with a sigh, and turned towards the door that led from the bathroom into his own bedroom. “I’ll be in my bedroom, just through here,” he slurred, alcohol and fatigue hitting him like a lorry. “Help yourself to a shower, if you wish.”

“Alright,” John said as he went, “I’m just going to… yeah. I’ll do that.”

“Mm,” Sherlock responded as he stepped into his room, leaving the door ajar and listening as the tap was turned on. He stripped off his shirt and let it fall to the floor, hearing the distant echo of a garment of John’s hitting the tile floor of the bathroom, before shedding his trousers and pants and flopping down gracelessly on his bed. He barely made it halfway under the duvet before the fatigue from the excitement of the night, the drink, and his climax caught up to him, and he was out like a light.

 

\--

 

Say what you will about a cold shower technically doing nothing to speed up the process of alcohol being metabolised in the body; when John turned off the tap and stepped out of the shower in Sherlock’s bathroom, he felt far more alert than he had twenty minutes prior. He stepped around his soiled clothes piled in a small heap on the floor to grab a towel from beside the sink - because surely it was acceptable to use them, since Sherlock had offered up his shower, right? The detritus of his makeup was sitting on the sink counter in a pile of beige and white and red liquid latex-bound tissues, which he swept into the bin by the toilet. He methodically ran the towel over his limbs, patting them dry, before rubbing it through his hair, and finally slinging it around his waist before contemplating what to do next.

His clothes were rather soiled, but he could clean them up relatively quickly and head home in them - however much it pained him to consider the idea. But this was Sherlock’s home. And this was how these things generally worked. Meet up, hook up, go home. John looked at himself in the mirror and squared his shoulders, determined not to look dejected, and then turned and made his way into Sherlock’s room, bracing himself for the inevitable dismissal.

The room was dark when he stepped into it, and he could see Sherlock’s curly head and one bare shoulder peeking out from under the duvet. The man was facing away from him, and John chewed the inside of his cheek before he let out a soft sigh and turned to go back into the bathroom. Sherlock was asleep. He’d clean up his jersey, get dressed, and leave… maybe leave his phone number and a fiver on the table in the kitchen to make up for the cab fare-

“Where are you going?”

John started at the deep drawl that addressed him from the bed, and he spun around to find Sherlock and turned over and was looking at him with bleary eyes and a small, careful smile.

“Um,” he began, “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Mm, I was,” Sherlock said, shifting on the bed as his mouth opened in a delicate yawn.

John smiled, his heart throbbing at the sight. “Sorry for waking you,” he said softly.

Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t be.” A beat. “Are you leaving?” he asked, the tone of his voice sounding cautious.

John pursed his lips. “I don’t want to impose-”

“Don’t be an idiot,” the other man mumbled, and John grinned despite himself.

“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” he reasoned, even as he took a tentative step towards the bed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in challenge. “So sleep in nothing.”

John’s grin grew quirky. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“Mmh,” Sherlock hummed lowly, smile stretching lazily across his lips as he slid back on the bed, clearly an invitation. “Come and find out.”

John just laughed and closed the rest of the distance between himself and the bed, letting the towel fall to the floor as he climbed onto the mattress and under the duvet. The moment he was in the bed, Sherlock nestled up close to him with a sigh, one bare leg coming forward to slip innocently between John’s.

With a sigh of his own, the blond settled into the bed, his eyes heavily-lidded and lingering on Sherlock’s slackened face; the man was clearly close to sleep. His lips stretched slightly in a small, secret smile as he thought about how he hadn’t imagined, at the beginning of the night, that he’d end up cuddling a mad genius of a young man after getting off with him in the hallway of his flat. It was everything he could do not to start laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“John,” Sherlock addressed sleepily.

“Yeah?”

“Stop thinking.”

John’s grin widened as he settled his head more comfortably into his pillow. “Easy for you to say.”

“John.”

“Hm?”

“Go to sleep.”

And he did.

 

\--

 

When John woke, it was to the sounds of water running through pipes and splashing against tile, the smell of grapefruit and bergamot, the feeling of a ray of sun warming his skin where it fell in a stripe across his bare upper back… 

And a massive headache.

The decision to crack open one bleary eye was instantly regretted as John’s vision swam, and he groaned into the pillow his face was half-buried in, closing his eyes as his thoughts slowly straightened themselves out. 

Memories of the previous night flooded back to him, and John rolled onto his back and smiled at the feeling of unfamiliar sheets. Not even his hangover could truly dampen his spirits. He hadn’t been awoken and kicked out of the bed and the flat when Sherlock had gotten up, which in John’s opinion, boded rather well. He was about to contemplate getting up and going to the kitchen to see if he could rummage around and make breakfast, when the taps in the bathroom shut off and the gentle smack of wet feet against the tile floor followed shortly after.

John was just sitting up when the door to the bathroom opened and Sherlock, dressed in a blue dressing gown and rubbing a towel through his inky curls emerged. Upon seeing John awake, he smiled, and John smiled back.

“Good morning,” the blond greeted, voice cracking with his dry throat.

“Good morning,” Sherlock rejoined, voice equally as rough, and stood still a few metres away from the bed. 

John took a few moments to admire the flush high on Sherlock’s prominent cheekbones as a result of the hot water, and the way his dark curls fell in inky rivulets over his pale forehead, before he spoke. “Do you… um. Remember everything from last night?” he asked tentatively.

Sherlock nodded in the affirmative. “I do. I wasn’t  _ that _ drunk,” he said with a small smirk. “Do… do you?”

“I do,” John said, and inhaled as he searched between Sherlock’s carefully guarded eyes. “And I don’t… I don’t regret any of it,” he said carefully.

To his relief, Sherlock’s eyes, along with his smile, softened and brightened. “Good.”

John’s own smile broadened, but then he winced. “Mm. Except maybe the drinking. I’ve a massive headache,” he said as he sat up more fully, a hand coming to his temple, the sheets falling down to pool about his hips.

“Water and Paracetamol on the nightstand,” Sherlock directed, and John’s heart ached with fondness and gratitude as he followed Sherlock’s gaze to the bedside table, where a glass of water and two small tablets were placed.

“Oh. Thank you,” he said, reaching out to take the water and pills, taking a swig of the drink before popping back the pills and then quaffing the rest. Thirst moderately quenched and pills taken, he set the glass back down and rubbed at his eyes.

“Would you care for coffee?” Sherlock asked, heading towards the bedroom door.

“I’d love some, in a minute,” John said, hearing the door open.

“Alright. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Okay.” John waited until Sherlock departed to flop back down onto the bed, a broad smile on his face. He couldn’t believe his fortune; he was joining Sherlock for breakfast. Or at least coffee. He wasn’t being kicked out. He’d gotten off with the most gorgeous and brilliant man he’d ever met, and neither of them regretted it, and they were having  _ coffee. _

A giggle of excitement escaped him as he sat up once more and tossed the duvet aside, and as he got up he espied a deep red dressing gown hanging on the back of the bedroom door. Figuring it was as good as anything, John took it down and donned it, trying not to be too bothered by the fact that the bottom couple inches dragged on the ground around his feet and the sleeves were a touch too long as he tied it around himself and made his way out of the room.

He padded down the hallway and squinted his eyes at the natural light that flowed through the large windows in the main room and the window in the kitchen, bathing the flat in soft, golden morning light. The sounds of ceramic cups clinking in the kitchen drew his attention and he turned to see Sherlock rummaging around and pulling out a canister of sugar to join the two mismatched mugs on the counter before the coffee maker, which bubbled away softly, and he couldn’t help but smile where he leaned in the doorway connecting the hallway to the kitchen.

Then Sherlock turned around and caught sight of him, his eyes trailing up and down John’s robe-clad body, and the smile that graced his features was incredibly, impossibly fond. John’s chest ached again, for the second time that morning.

“Do you take sugar? Cream?” Sherlock asked, returning his attention to the task at hand as he poured equal amounts of coffee into the two mugs.

“Neither, ta,” John said as he crossed the kitchen to stand next to Sherlock at the counter.

Sherlock replaced the coffee pot before taking a small spoon and adding two heaping spoonfuls of sugar to his own mug, which John couldn’t help but smile fondly at, before handing the un-sweetened coffee to John.

He nodded silently in thanks as he took the ceramic mug with a Union Jack pattern in both his hands, holding it up to his mouth, and inhaling. He was sure that his surprise didn’t register on his face when he smelled hazelnut. Blowing over the surface of the dark liquid, he accepted it; he took his coffee black, and preferred not to have any additives or special flavours, but he was rather desperate, so this would do just fi-

“I’m sorry it’s flavoured,” Sherlock said, and John looked up, blinking in surprise, before he smiled shyly. Of course, Sherlock knew. He knew everything.

“It’s perfectly alright,” John said with a small laugh, and even took a careful sip (and pointedly did not grimace) to prove it.

“I can- I can buy a different blend,” Sherlock said, much to John’s surprise - and to Sherlock’s, apparently, when after a moment the man’s eyes widened in realisation. “I mean- not that we’d be having coffee again. That is, if you  _ wanted _ to have coffee, I would like to have coffee. Not  _ here, _ but- I mean, if you  _ wanted _ to come here, I would-”

“Sherlock?” John interrupted.

“... Yes?”

John looked tilted his head fondly as he looked into that marvelous pair of keen eyes that were so much clearer than the night prior; at the man whom he’d met, been charmed by, drank with, danced with, snogged in a broom closet with, got off nearly fully clothed like a teenager with, and shared a bed with; and he reached up on his toes to press his own adoring grin to Sherlock’s supple lips.

“Shut up.”

And he did.

  
  


**_END._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all who have stopped by to read, leave kudos, and/or comment, thank you so much. You're the best. I love you all. 
> 
> And while I'm thinking about it; if anyone would like to see a potential epilogue for this little story, let me know in the comments. I could easily whip something up. ;)
> 
> Thank you so much again for clicking your way here. I hope you all had a FABULOUS Halloween. I spent mine writing Johnlock smut, so I know I enjoyed mine.
> 
> See you next time!


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

John stood before the full-length mirror on the wall of the bedroom, appraising himself with a critical eye. Aside from his height, he supposed, he knew he pretty much fit the bill; his bare upper half was tanned from hours outdoors without a shirt during the summer months as he and his fellow rugby teammates scrimmaged, his stocky abdomen and pectorals defined, subtly chiseled from his years of physical activity and hours spent at the gym. His broad shoulders led to shapely biceps and tapered forearms that ended in strong hands, which were settled on his own narrow hips.

His legs, while not incredibly long, were sturdy. His bared thighs showed further evidence of his physically active life, and his calves did the same.

And yet, as his reflection, dressed in nothing but a pair of golden briefs and a matching set of gold, low-top combat boots stared back at him, his skin subtly gleaming with the sheen of the light layer of oil that had been smeared over his body, he couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. His lips quirked and he hummed dubiously at his reflection.

“Sherlock? Are you sure this is a good idea?” he called out in the direction of the door, slightly ajar, which separated the bedroom from the bathroom. His gaze didn’t stray from the mirror.

“You look fine, John,” came a low, drawling baritone, prompting John to roll his eyes in exasperation.

“How do you know?” he asked skeptically, turning in the mirror to look over his shoulder at his own backside with a frown. “You can’t even see me.”

“Then come and let me see you,” the voice challenged, and John, heaving a sigh of resignation, plodded over to push the door further open and step into the bathroom.

“I just don’t-- woah.”

The blond froze, blue eyes wide as they took in the sight of Sherlock Holmes, in a dark grey, shimmery, sleeveless vest that was loosely laced up the front, tight black briefs with garters leading to black fishnet stockings that covered the miles of milky flesh and the lean musculature of his legs, grey sparkling platform heels with white accents, and dark grey shimmering, ripped gauntlets covering his forearms and elbows, leaning over the sink to apply the finishing touch of deep red lipstick to the perfect cupid’s bow of his lips in the mirror.

Brilliant, opalescent eyes, framed by dramatic, smokey eyeshadow and heavy eyeliner and mascara slid across to lock with his own in the mirror, and Sherlock’s lips turned up in a smirk as he capped the lipstick and set it onto the sink counter to join the rest of the makeup he had purchased specifically for the occasion. “You don’t what?” Sherlock asked, turning to lean against the counter, one hand on his hip, wearing an expression of mock-innocence.

“I-” John stammered, eyes roving over the spectacle before him. “I- don’t remember what I was going to say.”

A low chuckle bubbled up from the back of Sherlock’s throat as the man turned once more to the mirror, one gauntlet-clad hand rising to fiddle with the large white beads around his neck as he inspected the drawn-on tattoo of a bleeding heart, stabbed through with a dagger, with the word  _ ‘BOSS’  _ written above it adorning his right bicep. Satisfied with his handiwork, his hand moved from his faux pearls to his hair, which was more errant than usual, to tease at the fluffy curls. “I don’t think I do it justice,” he said with a passive sigh, “but no one could. Tim Curry’s work is masterful and cannot be recreated.” His murmur died away as he pivoted more in the mirror to inspect the rest of his costume before looking back at John. “What do you think?”

John blew out a desperate breath. “I think that I’ll be spending the entire night just waiting to get you back home so I can rip that costume off of you and bend you over the kitchen table.” He grinned triumphantly at the light flush that coloured Sherlock’s prominent cheekbones.

“I’ll hold you to that,” the taller man said, voice pitched low as his own eyes raked over John’s form, causing the blond’s skin to break out in gooseflesh in their wake. “You look marvelous. I told you you’d make a good Rocky.”

Despite the heat pooling low in his gut as he lusted over his boyfriend’s enticing form, John grimaced. “I’m too short,” he griped, “and not- I’m not built enough.” He came to stand next to Sherlock at the sink to look at his own frowning reflection, flexing his arms and huffing, because while he was certainly visibly strong, he was nowhere near the original Rocky Horror actor. “I’m certainly no Peter Hinwood.”

“Thank God for that,” Sherlock snorted, and brought a hand up to rake his fingers placatingly through John’s short, sandy hair. “His haircut in that film was an atrocity.”

Reasonably mollified, John’s lips quirked in a grin and he turned, letting a hum escape him as his hands came to rest on the bare bit of waist between the bottom of Sherlock’s vest and the top of his briefs. “You make a lovely Doctor Frank-N-Furter,” he said, head tilting fondly as Sherlock’s arms came to rest over his shoulders, long fingers still toying with his blond locks.

“I should hope so,” Sherlock scoffed lightly, “it took me nearly an hour to do my hair and makeup. Which reminds me-” he brought a finger to John’s lips, and the other man went cross-eyed as he followed the motion “-no kissing until after the party.”

John’s eyes shot to Sherlock’s and he gave a whine against his finger, speaking when it was pulled away. “You should have told me that earlier,” he contested. “I would have savoured the last one a bit more.” His lips formed a pout, and Sherlock hummed through a smirk.

“It’s only a couple of hours, John. I’m sure you’ll survive.” The brunette backed away and turned to toussle his raven curls once more in the mirror before giving satisfied hum and moving to leave the bathroom. His heels clacked sharply against the tiled floor and John’s eager eyes shamelessly honed in on the lovely swell of Sherlock’s arse under that small bit of black fabric as he trailed him out of the bathroom, down the hallway, and into the sitting room.

It was just a few hours short of a year since he’d met Sherlock; exactly three-hundred and sixty-five days since that fateful run-in at a party that spiraled into a life with a madman John didn’t know how he’d survived without before. In a week’s time, they’d be celebrating a year of officially being together. And about a month and a half after  _ that _ would see a year since John’s contract with the university housing system was up; which marked a year since he’d officially moved into 221B Baker Street. At the time, John felt that it had all happened rather fast; but in hindsight, it felt perfect. To this day, John was consistently amazed at how it genuinely felt like he and Sherlock had been together for several years, due to how impossibly perfectly they fit together in all aspects of life. While a hopeless romantic, John didn’t entertain the idea of soulmates; but if anyone was going to make John question everything he believed, it was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, as it turned out, was an invasive force; he took up every spare minute of John’s time (and even minutes of time John really couldn’t spare), invaded his privacy (John had long since given up trying to outsmart the man with clever passwords on his laptop and mobile), and was all-around a demanding, self-absorbed, stroppy, overgrown toddler with a penchant for sulking, leaving moldy specimens in the fridge next to the leftover Thai red curry takeaway -  _ ‘it’s for an  _ experiment _ , John’ _ \- and otherwise being a complete, impossible, and quite frankly fucking  _ insane _ git.

And John loved him with every ounce of his being. God help him.

For all the bloody trouble Sherlock could occasionally be, he was also impossibly brilliant. A certified genius. He was attentive in ways John hadn’t experienced in a partner; both in everyday life, and in bed. After the first few weeks of their relationship, when they were still working out how to coexist, their lives seemed to blend seamlessly together. John made tea and cooked when he could be bothered to and kept the flat in some semblance of order, while Sherlock provided plenty of excitement with the occasional explosion on the kitchen table and kept John on his toes with his lightning-quick wit, sharp tongue, and ever-changing mood.

Their relationship might have seemed a bit unorthodox to those on the outside, what with how much John griped about his insane fuckwit of a boyfriend; and of course they had the occasional row. Usually it was something to do with an unnamed substance growing fur in the ice trays next to the frozen peas. But honestly, if hairy ice cubes made of congealed blood was the worst thing John had to deal with in a relationship, he’d consider himself blessed.

Sherlock made him smile, made him laugh with his ever-present witty commentary, made his chest ache with fondness with every light-tipped smile that was cast his way, made him sigh and gasp when they were alone in the dark late at night, made his world so much brighter and more  _ interesting _ whenever he got even the slightest glimpse of what it was like to see life through the brunette’s iridescent eyes, clear and detailed and focused like a specimen on a slide under the microscope on their kitchen table.

Sure, it was a little unorthodox. But John wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He leaned against the hallway wall and watched as Sherlock scooped up a black leather jacket, adorned with vintage patches and buttons with fringe hanging off the underside of the sleeves, and pulled it on over his vest. The jacket was stylishly, provocatively short and barely reached Sherlock’s waist; the brunette pulled the garment down snugly and reached his long-fingered hands up to pop up the short collar, which had John grinning. Sherlock looked up and caught the man’s expression, and paused. “What?” he asked, suddenly looking almost shy.

“You’re just stunning,” John said, head tilting fondly as his eyes swept over the delicacy before him. “Stunning, gorgeous, perfect.”

Sherlock’s smile melted John’s heart. “Well you can thank yourself for the costume inspiration,” he chuckled, turning to gather his mobile and wallet off of the desk by the window to slip into his pockets.

John smiled at the memory of one of their first nights together, when they’d been sitting at opposite ends of the sofa in the sitting room, legs a hopeless tangle between them, the detritus of their dinner splayed out on the coffee table in a mess of Chinese takeaway cartons, chopsticks, and fortune cookie wrappers. Sherlock had been buried in his mobile, his foot absently stroking a slow, rhythmic path over a small section of John’s calf while John had been channel-surfing. Being so soon after Halloween, he really shouldn’t have been surprised when a zoomed-in set of red lips graced the screen.

He’d gasped so loudly and jolted so violently that Sherlock’s phone clattered to the ground, and it was only after John began belting out “then at a deadly pace, it came from… outer space,” and looked at Sherlock to find the man staring at him as if he’d grown a second set of ears, that he realised Sherlock had never had the pleasure of watching Rocky Horror Picture Show. And he rectified it immediately.

Of course, there were questions: “What is the significance of this wedding? There is nothing ‘science-fiction’ about this wedding.” “John, for God’s sake, why are they  _ singing? _ ” “John, why are Brad and Janet so awkward? 

This is painful.” “Why is that man dusting a skeleton?” “What is the purpose of the scene cutting to the man with the chart during this dance?” “Annual… Transylvanian Convention?” - But after several minutes, Sherlock was enraptured. Who could help but be mesmerized by Tim Curry’s fabulousness, John didn’t know; but it was evident that not even Sherlock Holmes was immune to the inexplicable, quirky charm of the cult classic.

Sherlock had immediately likened John to Rocky when Frank-N-Furter uttered the lines, “I’ve been making a man, with blond hair and a tan, and he’s good for relieving my…  _ tension,” _ and therefore, when the time came and John inquired as to what they should wear for a couples costume, there was no question in Sherlock’s mind as to who they would portray.

And the only reasons John agreed to go to a party dressed in shiny gold pants were, firstly, that he got to ogle Sherlock in fishnet stockings and heels all night, and secondly, that it was a rather small, intimate gathering of close friends at Irene’s place; and he had it under good authority that Mike Stamford was coming dressed as a gender-swapped Harley Quinn, so he wouldn’t be the only one made a fool of this evening.

John slipped off his gold boots as he stepped into the sitting room and grabbed his trackie bottoms - tearaways with buttons on the sides to pull on over his briefs - before replacing his boots on his feet and donning the matching black track jacket. As he turned towards the desk to grab his own mobile and wallet, he noticed Sherlock’s hand quickly closing the desk drawer and stuffing something in his pocket. Knowing exactly what that something was, he narrowed his eyes in accusation, and Sherlock, thankfully, dropped the innocent look on his face not a moment later.

“They  _ complete _ the costume, John,” he reasoned, voice gaining a desperate edge when John’s expression grew withering. “And I haven’t had one in nearly  _ two weeks. _ ”

“Exactly,” John said, stepping closer, “you’ve been doing  _ so _ well.”

His praise had little effect, a whine crackling in the back of Sherlock’s throat, his face contorted in dismay while his pale fingers twitched at his sides. 

John let out a sigh; the man had been on edge for the last few days, and he knew the reason for it, in part, was because John had been trying to wean him off his nicotine patches. They were a decent alternative to the cigarettes themselves, which John had mercifully been able to get Sherlock to smoke less and less of, but the past week, with the party costume planning and schoolwork and everything else life tended to throw at them, had been especially trying. So, with a reluctant groan, John relented. “One,” he said, and tried not to be happy when Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “One, and that’s it. Take it out of the pack now and tuck it behind your ear. We’ll get you some more patches on the way home.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock said, already fumbling with the carton to pull out a fag and tuck it behind his ear. He put the pack of smokes back on the desk and turned to John with a gentle, earnest smile. “Thank you. I- I know you don’t like it, but-”

“I know,” John said softly. “It’s a work in progress. And I’m so proud of how far you’ve come thus far.” He’d only started really trying to get Sherlock to cut back about four months ago, and since then, the man had gone from five packs a week on a particularly bad week, to about one every three weeks or so. Nicotine patches certainly helped - an idea proposed by John after he walked in on Sherlock lying on the sofa, cigarette burning in one hand, sitting room windows thrown open; not that it did much. It took a week for John to air the damned flat out after that. But he was proud of the progress Sherlock had made. It was hard for anyone with an addiction to quit; be it nicotine, alcohol, or any other substance. He understood, and he was willing to be patient. He was only doing it out of concern for Sherlock’s health, anyway.

“Just remember that I will not be kissing you until your mouth is rid of that dreadful taste,” he murmured with a teasing grin as he came up to stand in front of Sherlock, and he pushed up on his toes to press a kiss to the tender skin at the underside of the man’s jaw. He could feel the taller man’s responding hum under his mouth. 

“Understood,” Sherlock answered, smile audible in his voice, and John pulled away smiling as well.

“Alright then, love, shall we hit the road?” He plucked his mobile up off of the desk and looked at the time. “Party starts in twenty minutes, and Irene will kill us both if we’re late.”

Sherlock snorted. “Of course, because  _ ‘fashionably late’ _ is only acceptable when it’s  _ her _ who’s late,” he mumbled derisively as he turned away to walk towards the door - but he didn’t get far before John seized the opportunity to grab at a generous handful of one beautifully plump arse cheek, giving it a quick, but firm squeeze, a cheeky grin on his face.

The resulting stutter of Sherlock’s heels on the wood floor as he jumped away from the contact with a surprised yelp was well worth the look of disapproval (however feigned it was) that Sherlock shot at him.  _ “John!” _ the taller man admonished, though the exclamation dissolved into giggles, adrenaline-fueled and high-pitched, which, paired with the delicate and precious flush that decorated his high cheekbones, made for an irresistibly adorable combination that had John’s insides fluttering.

“Sorry,” he said, the apology wholly insincere, “couldn’t help it.” The smile on his face was mirrored when Sherlock looked back at him, eyes shining with mirth, and the blond found himself wondering, not for the first time as he basked in that brilliant smile, at the influence the two of them had on each other. He hadn’t been exactly miserable before he’d met Sherlock, but he hadn’t exactly been happy, either. He’d been content in his life; he had his friends, his team, and he’d been on a positive trajectory with his schooling. But in matters non-academic, he was lost when it came to ideas of the future. He hadn’t had a serious relationship in a few years, and the image he’d lived with in his youth of somehow obtaining a wife and having a few kids, living in the suburbs and getting a dog, seemed more and more unobtainable with each passing year. But now, with Sherlock, he felt that he had everything he hadn't been looking for. And it hadn't even been a year yet; not officially. Now, he felt like he had his whole life sorted. At twenty-two years of age, he'd found his anchor; and apparently, Sherlock was far better off with  _him,_ as well.

From what he’d gathered over the occasional pint with Greg or study session with Molly, Sherlock’s life pre-John was devoid of satisfaction. According to them, Sherlock was surly, brooding, disimpassioned, and borderline depressive. Certainly, John saw this side of Sherlock reveal itself whenever the man was even mildly inconvenienced by something; whether it be gloomy weather, the unavailability of large quantities of liquid nitrogen at Tesco, or the fact that several takeaway shops dared to not deliver past 11pm on weeknights.

As John faced these black moods that often led to days without showering (or even leaving the sofa) and the occasional teacup hurled at a wall, he did his best to understand. Sherlock once described it as though his mind were a rocket, stuck and tearing itself to pieces on the launchpad. His mind was always working, even when there wasn’t anything in the moment to engage him, and it was exhausting for both of them to deal with the consequences. 

And certainly, this dour disposition remained mostly intact whenever he and Sherlock were in public, but there were little things - imperceptible to nearly everyone else, but which spoke volumes to the effect John had on Sherlock. The brunette wasn’t quite as callous when addressing more delicate matters when John was around; as if the shorter man’s mere presence stood as a reminder to Sherlock that people did, indeed, have feelings, and deserved to be respected. Where a year ago Sherlock wouldn’t have been caught dead being physically affectionate with anyone, there were now idle brushes of shoe-clad feet under a table in the quad at school. The list went on, but at the very top were two things John had been told were virtually nonexistent before the two of them had stumbled upon each other; laughs and smiles.

John couldn’t imagine Sherlock never smiling or laughing. His laugh was musical; all rich tones in that luxurious baritone timbre, the sonance something that John cherished, that he wanted to wrap himself in and keep with him forever. There were different sorts of laughs, too, and John made it his mission to discover new ones whenever he could; the sweet giggles that came with embarrassed blushes, the breathy, broken chuckles of awe that usually happened in bed, the full-bodied, rich laughs that filled John’s chest with fond warmth… And then there were his smiles. God, his smiles… The smug, self-satisfied smirk that John couldn’t decide whether he wanted to smack or kiss off of his lips; the soft, gentle smiles that looked so foreign and out of place in their shyness on the arrogant man’s face; and the tooth-bearing, beaming, genuinely  _ happy _ smiles that were full of admiration and love, reserved especially for John.

That was the smile Sherlock was giving him now. One of unbridled affection and happiness that was reflected in his opaline eyes. It was impossible to pick a favourite; but if John were forced to pick a favourite smile, it might just be that one. 

He watched as Sherlock, still smiling, turned and lifted his chin up high, before strutting away from John and towards the door of their flat, heels clicking primly and hips swaying deliberately as he went.

_ I’m never going to get tired of that, _ John thought to himself with a secretive grin as he swiped his wallet and keys off of the desk to stuff into his pockets. Being the responsible one of the pair, he turned off the lights in the kitchen and in the sitting room before leaving the flat and jogging down the stairs to catch up with Sherlock, who was already nearing the bottom.

Apparently, the clacking of Sherlock’s heels on the stairs caught the attention of their downstairs neighbour, because as they were about to head out the front door, a voice that was becoming more familiar to John with each passing day rang out to them both. “Boys! Are you two off to your party?”

John turned with a smile to find Mrs. Hudson, A.K.A.  _ “Not Your Housekeeper,” _ dressed in black with a modestly-sized black pointy hat pinned to her hair atop her head. “Hullo, Mrs. Hudson,” he greeted with a beaming grin as she crossed the foyer to them, arms wide as she moved to embrace both of them in turn. “We’re just heading out,” he answered over her shoulder as he was embraced, and smiled when she pulled back.

“Well you two be safe out there,” she warned, looking between them, “you know, everyone is drinking and getting rowdy-- oh, Sherlock, you look  _ lovely. _ ” 

The praise, much to John’s amusement, was met with yet another blush and a mild eye roll from Sherlock, who stood nearest the front door looking rather shy - a dramatic contrast from his usual self. “Ta, Mrs. Hudson,” he mumbled, his icy disposition melting instantly the moment she stepped forward to give him a hug.

“I would have thought you’d find it scandalous,” John joked, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

“Oh, of course not,” she said with a smile. “I remember when the film came out. I was in my early thirties,” the landlady began, her eyes gaining a faraway look as she recalled memories of her past, and John smiled fondly as she went on. “They held live shows down by the West End, and we all went- oh, I wish you could have seen it. Everyone dressed the part; I usually went as Columbia,” she said quietly, a conspiratorial glint in her eye.

John’s smile broadened. “I’ll bet you were quite fetching,” he said, and she gave a mild swat to his arm. 

“Hush, you,” she said without bite, and smiled at the pair of them. “You two must get photos taken at your party so I can have them for my mantle,” she ordered, and John laughed.

“You want a photo of me in just a pair of gold pants?” he asked, but his laughter died immediately with the look she shot him.

“I’ve seen you in far less, dear,” she chided, and it was Sherlock’s turn to snicker at John’s expense.

Fighting his blush, John cleared his throat and opted to change the subject. “Are you all ready for the little ones to come around demanding sweets?” he asked, looking toward the door; the trick-or-treaters wouldn’t be out just yet, but they’d surely be storming the streets within the next hour.

Mrs. Hudson laughed and gave a nod. “Of course. And I bought  _ plenty _ of sweets; don’t worry, Sherlock,” she turned to address the taller man, “I’ve saved a whole bag of chocolates just for you.” She stepped up to the brunette and raised a hand to pinch delicately at one of his cheeks, and rather than flush with renewed embarrassment, the man grinned and leaned down to place the ghost of a kiss to her cheek, so as to not smudge his lipstick. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, voice oozing adoration that never failed to make John’s chest warm with fondness over how close the man was with his landlady. They clearly loved each other, and John would never get over how unfailingly touching their encounters were; and he considered himself incredibly blessed to have been welcomed into their little unorthodox family.

“You’re very welcome, dear,” she said, patting his cheek, before stepping back. “You two get going. Don’t let me make you late for your party. And keep an eye on each other.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock called back as he opened the door, admirably not flinching at the chilled air against his mostly-exposed body. “Have a good night.”

“Have fun!” she called after them as John waved back at her before following Sherlock out the door, down the short set of concrete steps, and onto the pavement where they set off on the lookout for a cab.

“You’re sharing that chocolate with me,” John murmured, putting his hands in his pockets to keep them somewhat warm as they walked, and his lips broke into a grin as Sherlock snorted.

“Not a chance,” the taller man said, eyes scanning the road they walked along for signs of a cab with its vacancy light turned on.

John laughed before falling into comfortable silence, only speaking up again after they rounded a corner and Sherlock reached up to snag the cigarette from where it was perched delicately behind his ear. His other hand rummaged around in his pocket and emerged with a lighter, but before he placed the fag between his lips, he looked hesitantly to John, who shrugged.

“Go ahead,” he said, eyes moving to the street to watch cars go by, “Irene’s isn’t terribly far away, and I doubt we’ll get a cab at this time of night anyway.”

Giving him a small, fond smile of thanks, Sherlock lit his cigarette, and let out a sigh after the first long drag that John would normally only hear when his own mouth was wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, and he was almost offended, but the look of relief on the man’s face made something twist painfully in his gut.

“Like I said, I know that you hate it-” Sherlock started, but John cut him off.

“And like  _ I _ said,” he countered, “I know. It’s alright. These things take time, and I’m incredibly proud of you for trying.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly, before taking another drag. John smiled softly at the courteousness with which Sherlock was sure to aim the smoke in the opposite direction so as to not get in John’s face.

“You’re welcome.” They were silent for a few moments, save for the rhythmic tap of Sherlock’s heels on the pavement, before John grinned again. “Loathe as I am to admit it, you’re right; it does complete the costume.”

Sherlock’s low, rumbling chuckle morphed into a humming of something John couldn’t quite distinguish until the man pulled his cigarette - now with the orange paper around the filter bedecked with a red smudge - from his lips to utter words.

“Don’t get strung out,” he began, “by the way I look-” his words fell in time with his footsteps “-don’t judge a book by it’s cover.”

John bit his lip around a manic grin and dipped his head as he matched Sherlock’s pace.

“I’m not much of a man, by the light of day,” Sherlock continued, growing louder and more melodic, “but by night I’m one  _ hell _ of a lovaah- I’m just a sweet transvestite,” he sang, and John burst into laughter, “from transexual, Transylvania-ha-hah!”

John was wiping tears from his eyes by the time he looked over and caught sight of the taller man smiling around his cigarette. Another thing he couldn’t imagine Sherlock doing in public; singing. There were always surprises. John was further surprised when Sherlock turned around and began walking backwards, eyes boring into him as he continued, skipping to what was undoubtedly his favourite verse:

“Why don’t you stay for the night?” he began, and John, grinning, picked up the echo seamlessly.

_ “Night,” _ he said, and Sherlock feigned a shrug.

“Or maybe,” he continued, “a bite.”

_ “Bite,” _ John said, and clacked his teeth together for added measure.

Sherlock grinned. “I can show you my favourite- obsession. I’ve been making a man,” he said, reaching forward to card his fingers through John’s hair and trailing one finger down the side of John’s face to his jaw, “with blond hair and a tan, and he’s good for relieving my…  _ tension.” _

John laughed as Sherlock turned back around and fell back into stride next to John, the pair of them belting out the remainder of what was undeniably their favourite number of the entire film.

And when they were done, they launched into another song. They sang their hearts out, receiving the occasional round of applause or approving whistle from passerby who saw them (though John knew that all of the praise was for Sherlock, strutting downtown in a perfect portrayal of Tim Curry’s character), and neither of them were bothered by the attention. It was Halloween; everyone looked ridiculous, painted up and flouncing about in next to no clothes.

By the time they’d reached Irene’s flat several musical numbers later, they were both laughing hysterically, John nearly doubled over with the force of his own laughter. Sherlock’s cigarette had long been discarded, his hands now fisted in the pockets of his leather jacket. John brought a hand up to wipe the moisture from his own eyes as he stood to his full height once more, facing Sherlock as they came to stand at the bottom of the steps leading up to Irene’s front door. As their laughter died down and they managed to at least partly catch their breath, John took the opportunity to just  _ look _ at his magnificent treasure of a boyfriend, and how enraptured he was must have shown on his face because Sherlock’s expression softened enchantingly.

“I love you,” the brunette said, his head tilting just the slightest bit, and John’s heart stuttered at the utterance; it was something he heard nearly every day, and had heard for the past few months after he’d come out with the admission after a particularly heated bit of fornication, but he didn’t think he’d ever get used to hearing it in that velvety voice, uttered like every other fact of life that Sherlock had tucked away in his mind.

“I love you more,” John murmured, stepping closer to stand toe to toe with the other, eyes trailing from Sherlock’s eyes down to his dark red lips, which turned up in a smirk.

“Mm. Unlikely,” Sherlock rejoined lowly, and John’s smile broadened.

“How about, after the party, I take you home and present the evidence to back up my claim?” John asked, fingers of one hand tucking coyly into the laced-up front of Sherlock’s vest, visible through the gap in his leather jacket.

“Acceptable,” Sherlock began, before a shrill voice cut him off and made both men jump.

“Oi!”

The two of them spun around to look up at the front door to Irene’s flat, eyes wide, to see the woman herself, poised in the doorway in a short red dress with what John recognised to be the Starfleet Insignia over her left breast. “Get the bloody hell in here, we’ve been waiting for you two-- heaven’s sakes, what the  _ hell _ are you wearing?” she asked, eyes wide as they raked over Sherlock.

“You’re one to talk,” John said defensively on his boyfriend’s behalf, though Irene clearly wasn’t meaning to ridicule Sherlock in any way. Nevertheless, John frowned disapprovingly at her choice in costume. “Next Gen?  _ Really? _ ”

Irene’s focus shifted to John, and she narrowed her eyes. “Just because you’re lusting after a young William Shatner doesn’t mean his acting isn’t rubbish,” she said, going on before John could interject. “Hurry up, you two, I need a drink and Mary is  _ refusing _ to open up the Rosé until you’re both present,” she finished with a hefty roll of her eyes before turning to strut back inside.

“Fucking Christ,” John said with a huff, a hand over his chest where his heart still raced from when Irene had startled them both, and Sherlock chuckled from beside him as he stepped up the first couple steps.

“We’d better get in there,” he said with a smile, “or she’ll kill the both of us. And I’m looking forward to that chocolate from Mrs. Hudson when we get home.”

John laughed as he made to follow, but was stopped by Sherlock extending his hand.

“Got your breath back?” the brunette asked with a grin and a twinkle in his eyes.

And John, grinning back, took a fortifying breath before reaching out to slide his hand into Sherlock’s, his smile widening as he was pulled up the stairs and up to the door. The pair of them exchanged one last secret smile before pulling the door open to make their way inside.

“Ready when you are.”  
  


 

**_FIN._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all they wrote.
> 
> Thank you so, so, SO much for clicking your way here and reading this little drabble. It was refreshing for me to write; I needed to get away from my other fic for a bit to reboot my system and write something fresh, and it certainly helped. To anyone reading Resident Patient, I'm sorry. That's all I have to say. I'll get to it, I promise. I'm working on it as we speak. Promise, promise, promise.
> 
> Anyway, thanks again to all of you. Everyone reading, commenting, leaving kudos, subscribing, bookmarking, or even just clicking on this work. Thank you thank you thank you thank you. I'd kiss you all if I could. Thanks again, truly, I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading, and I hope to see you all again sometime.
> 
> Love you all to pieces. <3 Have a great night and a great week.


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